


When the Bomb Drops

by Exdraghunt



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Mechpreg, Mpreg, Multi, PWP, group orgies, scavenger shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-02-19 09:30:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22875487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exdraghunt/pseuds/Exdraghunt
Summary: “But I have a spark-baffle installed. I can’t be sparked!”“Well, you don’t anymore.” Spinister said with a shrug. “Probably got yanked to make more room for explosives.”Fulcrum let out a whine and cradled his head in his hands. Of course. The sadists at Styx who reformatted him into a K-classer wouldn’t have hesitated to remove his baffle to jam a larger explosive payload into his chest. A K-con’s life expectancy was measured in days, what use did they have for birth control?
Relationships: Fulcrum/The Scavengers (Transformers)
Comments: 94
Kudos: 292





	1. Chapter 1

Fulcrum groaned as he sluggishly booted up, entire frame aching in a vague but irritating way. It wasn’t quite the same as the frame-itch that had bothered him off and on ever since he’d been reformatted, the result of being shoved into a frame and alt-mode without regard for how well it fit. No, this was more like he’d over-energized hard and been run over by Grimlock, but the WAP barely had enough engex onboard to get a buzz and the dynobot had been rather well-behaved lately.

More likely was that he’d ingested a bad batch of energon. The Scavengers did their best to trade for clean, if low-grade, energon to consume, reserving syphoned fuel for the WAP’s engines, but sometimes there was little choice than to drink some of the. . . second hand stuff. Fulcrum wasn’t sure if he’d ever get used to drinking a cube of energon that had been sucked from a dead body, but it was better than starving.

Or maybe not. Fulcrum’s helm spun as he attempted to stand up, and he wobbled on his pedes before falling back onto his berth. Moving inspired dizziness and nausea, forcing Fulcrum to clap a hand over his mouth and force down the urge to purge. Energon was already so hard to come by, it was unthinkable to let any be wasted.

Of course, that was difficult when his systems seemed determined to reject the fuel inside him. Fulcrum vented deeply, bending double to bury his face between his knees until, finally, the urge began to fade. Okay, that was weird.

Then there was the feeling of full-frame exhaustion that haunted him for the rest of the day, causing him to lose at Shoot Shoot, Bang Bang even faster than he usually did. (How Misfire could be such a lousy shot with a pulse rifle, but dead on with a suction cup dart gun was one of the universe’s great mysteries.)

“What’s up, loser?” Misfire asked as he tugged Fulcrum upright, giggling at the darts decorating the K-con’s chassis and helm. There was even one stuck to his impressive chin, courtesy of an ace shot by Spinister. “I mean, I know that you suck at this game, but you don’t usually fail _this_ hard.”

“Gee, thanks, Misfire.” Fulcrum commented drolly, tugging the dart from his face with a pop! Before he could come up with anything particularly clever, though, the world spun around him as he was hauled to his pedes and his tanks heaved unpleasantly. Before Fulcrum could stop himself, he purged. All over Misfire.

The pink jet squealed and jumped backwards, but wasn’t fast enough to miss having his front covered in half-processed energon. Unsupported, Fulcrum toppled over onto the couch with a miserable groan.

“Ewww! What the frag?!” Misfire did a little dance in place, unsuccessfully trying to shake off some of the mess without smearing it all over his plating. “Did you just- You just purged on me! Fulcrum!”

The poor K-con moaned into the couch cushion his face was pressed into, and a little of Misfire’s anger abated. Clearly, something was genuinely wrong.

“What’s all the noise in here?” Krok frowned as he entered the TV room, absently plucking darts from his chest. Crankcase followed closely behind his Captain, face set into its usual frown. Though, his lips did quirk slightly when he saw the state Misfire was in.

“The pinhead purged all over me!” Misfire complained, face set into a disgusted grimace as the mess all over his front started to seep through his seams.

“Then get to the washrack, Misfire.” Krok sighed as the jet stomped out of the room, leaving a drippy trail of half-processed energon behind him. The Captain of the WAP then turned his attention to Fulcrum, who had moved only enough to curl up around his sore chassis. “Fulcrum?”

“Urgh, sorry. Sir.” Fulcrum managed. “Bad fuel batch, I think.”

“Nobody else on the WAP is sick.” Krok glanced at Crankcase, who shrugged in response. “Come on, maybe Spinister should take a look at you.”

“Look at who?” As if summoned by the sound of his name, Spinister wandered into the room. “Or. Is somebody looking at me?” One of the helicopter’s hands twitched towards his gun.

“Fulcrum isn’t feeling good.” Krok explained. “Can you scan him, see if something is wrong? No shooting.”

“Oh, okay.” Fortunately, Spinister’s gun remained holstered as he produced a battered medical scanner from his subspace instead. A few good whacks got the thing to power on, though the screen flickered and fuzzed static as Spinister plugged it into Fulcrum’s medical port and started scrolling through the K-con’s diagnostic reports.

“You aren’t sick.” Spinister offered after glancing through the data on the scanner.

“Then why do I feel like my spark’s been stomped on?” Fulcrum rubbed a hand over his chest wearily.

“Oh, that’s just the sparkling.” Spinister unplugged the scanner and coiled up its cabling. “Chest and spark pain are pretty common as a sparkling fissions. The purging is just your gestation chamber coming online.”

The helicopter looked up to see Krok, Crankcase, and Fulcrum staring at him with wide optics and shocked expressions. “Wot?”

“Hang on, are you trying to tell us that Fulcrum is knocked up?” Crankcase asked incredulously. “Seriously?”

“Didn’t I just say that?” Spinister blinked and scratched his helm in confusion, “Yeah, he’s sparked. About a week or so.”

“But, how?” Fulcrum blurted, both hands now pressed against his chestplate.

Spinister looked at him like he was an idiot. (And gee, wasn’t that an uncomfortable moment of role reversal.) “Well, first two bots clang-“

“No, no, I know that part.” Fulcrum hastily cut him off, hoping to save himself (and everyone else present) from a Spinister sex-ed lesson. “But I have a spark-baffle installed. I can’t be sparked!” Baffles were standard issue to all ‘Cons, even high command had them.

“Well, you don’t anymore.” Spinister said with a shrug. “Probably got yanked to make more room for explosives.”

Fulcrum let out a whine and cradled his head in his hands. Of course _. Of course._ The sadists at Styx who reformatted him into a K-classer wouldn’t have hesitated to remove his baffle to jam a larger explosive payload into his chest. A K-con’s life expectancy was measured in days, what use did they have for birth control?

“Spinister, why don’t you go find Misfire and see if you can refine some energon that Fulcrum can keep down.” Krok suggested, sitting down on the couch next to Fulcrum as the helicopter wandered off to do just that. Crankcase, sensing that something emotional was about to happen, turned and headed back to the WAP’s bridge.

“Fulcrum, you alright?” Krok asked gently once their audience had left. He reached over to lay a hand against the K-con’s back kibble. It was testament to how accustomed Fulcrum had gotten to his strange unit’s touchy nature that he didn’t even flinch at the contact.

“No! I mean, yes? I don’t know. Maybe?” Fulcrum didn’t lift his face from his hands, but he did lean closer into Krok, taking some comfort from his commanding officer’s steady, calm presence. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“It doesn’t have to.” Krok’s voice was quiet, soothing. “Spinister is a good surgeon, he can always terminate if that’s what you want.”

Was that what he wanted? A quick procedure with Spinister, then go on like nothing had ever happened? He’d probably need to get a new baffle installed, of course. Assuming they had the materials to make one.

Or. He could go through with this. Sure, he’d never carried, nor did he know anybody who had, but bots had carried all the time before the war, right? It couldn’t be that hard. And then, there’d be a sparkling. A tiny little person, with a real live spark and brain module and everything. Fulcrum had never seen a sparkling, but he’d heard about them. They were supposed to be small and adorable. A cute little mix of the two parent mecha. Fulcrum idly wondered if the sparkling would take after his original frametype, or would it become a tiny bomb? Or maybe it would look like the sire, whichever of the Scavengers that was. The image of a miniature Crankcase, with tiny, patent scowl, came amusingly to mind.

“I think, maybe. That I want to keep it.” Fulcrum lifted his helm to look at Krok with hesitant optics. “If that’s okay. Sir.”

“It’s your decision, Fulcrum.” Krok reminded him, “But if that’s what you want, then the rest of us are here to support you.”

It was still weird to hear a commanding officer be all emotional and reassuring, but Fulcrum had gradually gotten used to the idea that his Captain was not a typical Decepticon officer. Krok cared, genuinely cared, and so did the rest of the Scavengers in their own way. In all honestly, it did make Fulcrum feel better.

“Thank you,” Fulcrum whispered quietly. He then gave a groan and bent over again. Wonderful, not only had his tank emptied itself, now it was complaining about being empty and insisting he put some fuel in. “Uuuugh, I just purged, how can I be hungry?”

Krok chuckled and patted him on the back one more time before standing. “I’ll go see where Misfire and Spinister got off to. I’m sure we have something onboard you’ll be able to keep down.”

As Krok stepped out, Fulcrum arranged himself more comfortably on the couch, hands still pressed against his chestplate. He didn’t feel anything different in there now, certainly nothing to indicate a whole other spark growing inside. Still, he felt a flicker of affection start to form for the new life. He had Krok and all the other Scavengers there behind him, they could handle this.


	2. Chapter 2

So far, carrying wasn’t particularly difficult. Sure, Fulcrum was tired constantly from the sparkling drawing on his spark energy. And he still got nauseous at times, though the anti-purgative that he had started adding to his energon greatly assisted in actually keeping his rations down. Spinister had reassured him that either his systems would adjust to the quality of the energon he was ingesting, or he’d keep rejecting it and die. Fulcrum was really, really hoping for the first option.

The real inconvenience was getting charged up at inopportune moments. Like when he was sitting on the couch with Crankcase, trying to watch Skullcruncher’s latest comedy tour. Fulcrum tried to concentrate on the program, which was honestly funny, it really was, but his focus kept narrowing to the tingle of his thigh plating where it brushed against Crankcase’s. The warmth of the triggercon’s EM field, relaxed and vaguely amused, had Fulcrum fighting back his body’s prompts to activate cooling fans as his core temperature inched upwards. Nothing, though, could keep his valve from lubricating as his charge grew.

Fulcrum had interfaced with Crankcase before, several times in fact, which provided plenty of fuel for the fantasies flickering through his mind. He was overcome by the urge to roll over and straddle his fellow Scavenger’s lap right then and there, but was stopped by the knowledge that Crankcase probably wouldn’t appreciate it. Like most things, Crankcase was rather prickly about pleasure and when and how he received it. He was less of a ‘daylight tryst on the couch’ type and more of a ‘rough and hard in the middle of the night with the lights off’ sort of partner.

Finally, it all got to be too much and Fulcrum blurted a hasty excuse before dashing from the room. Hopefully, he could make it to his own habsuite to take care of things before he leaked through his panels.

Alas, his plans were foiled when the door slid open and Fulcrum ran smack into a strong, pink torso.

“Whoa there, Pinhead! What’s the hurry?” Misfire grabbed the smaller K-con by the shoulders, optics cycling wide when he teeked Fulcrum’s field. Fliers had far more sensitive systems than grounders, and he could all too easily feel what had the other Scavenger so worked up. “Oooh.”

To Fulcrum’s eternal embarrassment, he let out a needy little whine and felt his valve panel snap open.

“Well then, what a treat,” An eager smirk spread across Misfire’s face as one of his hands drifted from Fulcrum’s shoulder to stroke down his back. Hot puffs of air escaped the K-con’s vents as he finally lost the battle with his cooling fans and they stuttered online. “A little bomb, all hot and bothered and needing some special assistance.”

“I’d have helped if he could’ve worked up the backstrut to say something.” A gruff voice spoke from behind Fulcrum, and he twisted to see that Crankcase had gotten up and was now standing and staring with arms crossed. The triggercon was scowling, but Fulcrum had worked with him long enough to tell it was just his usual expression, rather than actual irritation.

Shame warred with arousal as the two larger mecha continued to stare at him, and Fulcrum realized that the two wouldn’t actually go any further if he didn’t say something.

“Please, I-“ Fulcrum bit his lip, trying to figure out how to come off as anything but weak and needy. “I’m so charged-“

“And you need a good, hard spiking from a certain sexy jet?” Misfire completed the thought for him, glancing up to meet the gaze of Crankcase’s visor, “With the help of a certain grumpy grounder, of course.”

Fulcrum nodded, allowing himself to be shepherded out of the hall and into the nearest habsuite. Which happened to be Misfire’s, judging from the amount of junk strewn across the floor. A sweep of the arm sent empty engex cans crashing to the floor, making room for the three Cons to collapse onto the berth.

Misfire and Crankcase might have been exact opposites in personality, but all their time spent together as a Unit meant the two knew how to work together. Sandwiched between the two, Fulcrum had little choice but to relax and give in to their ministrations.

“I knew this one seeker back in Basic who had carried once.” Misfire’s mouth continued to run as he pumped two fingers in and out of Fulcrum’s valve, spreading him out to prepare him for something _bigger_. “Said it made him super horny all the time. Said that interfacing while carrying is totally processor blowing.”

Fortunately, Misfire found a better use for his mouth soon enough, licking and nipping at Fulcrum’s neck cables as he lowered the K-con down onto his spike. Crankcase was equally attentive behind him, massaging thick, blunt fingers into the seams of Fulcrum’s back to tweak wires and cabling underneath. His spike rubbed against Fulcrum’s aft, impatiently waiting for Misfire to finish so that he could take his turn.

Normally, Fulcrum didn’t have the stamina to keep up with the other Scavengers in the berth. Under the K-class reformat, he was still a light-weight techie frame, after all. He just wasn’t built to go as long and hard as sturdily-built war-frames.

Now, though, the three of them were several overloads in and Fulcrum was still going. He was hot, and sticky, and tired, and somehow still charged and hungry for _more_. More transfluid, more spark-energy, more overloads funneling all that right to his spark and gestation systems. Clearly, the drain of the forming sparkling had turned the carrier into something of an energy sink.

Eventually, the three Scavengers found themselves completely and utterly spent. Fulcrum lay limp on the berth, Crankcase’s backstrut pressed against his own on one side, and a very clingy Misfire wrapped around him on the other. Fulcrum felt warm and satisfied, if a little uncomfortably full. They’d kept going until both Misfire and Crankcase were completely empty of transfluid, but very little decorated the berth. Nearly all of it had been absorbed into Fulcrum’s gestation chamber, to be turned into materials for the sparkling.

That was something to think about later. For now, Fulcrum was happy to snuggle between two larger, warmer frames to revel in the feeling of being _wanted_ , of belonging. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really like to imagine a doting, caring Krok okay?

It was an unfortunate fact that none of the Scavengers knew much about carrying or sparklings. Krok and Crankcase had never known anyone who had done it, and Misfire’s stories about ‘that one seeker I knew back in Basic who carried once’ were more acrophyll hearsay than useful fact. Even Spinister didn’t know a whole lot. Carrying wasn’t exactly extensively covered in the Decepticon Medical Corps, beyond how to prevent it and how to perform a termination should the first step fail.

With this in mind, the next time the Scavengers came to a trading outpost, Krok left the others to barter their scrap for supplies and found himself at a small bookfile shop. It was a hodgepodge of datapads and physical books from all over the galaxy, roughly organized by language and culture. The Cybertronian section was fairly small, a consequence of being too busy killing eachother to write much literature for 4 million years, but Krok carefully examined the titles of each one anyway.

It was a long shot, but Krok did manage to find what he was looking for. A battered Golden-age bookfile titled “Of Carrying and Sparklings.” A quick scroll through it showed that it wasn’t terribly technical, being more of a general overview of the whole process, but it was better than nothing.

After some work haggling the shopkeeper down to a reasonable price, Krok went off to find his crew before they got themselves banned from another trading post.

One somewhat-hasty escape from the outpost later, the Scavengers were on their way again and celebrating a successful trading session by getting shitfaced. Spinister, Crankcase, and Misfire eagerly camped themselves in the TV room with a pile of engex, along with Grimlock, who had been drawn by the commotion.

Well aware that he would later be cleaning up the mess, Krok decided it would best that he abstain. Fulcrum couldn’t get overcharged either, since the volatile nature of engex would inevitably result in him just purging it back up again, and would probably appreciate not being the only sober person onboard the WAP.

“Probably best to leave them to it,” Krok shook his head as he watched the others of the crew get started on their goal, but had no real reason to stop them. If they wanted to blow through all the engex they’d just purchased in one go, so be it. “Join me in my quarters? I picked up something for you at the trading post.”

“For me?” Fulcrum curiously trailed behind his Captain and left the noisy, partying group behind. “You’re not just saying that to make me feel better about not being able to get overcharged, are you?”

“Only a little,” Once they were inside the Captain’s quarters with the door closed, Krok produced the bookfile he’d purchased from his subspace. “Here, I thought you might appreciate this.”

“’Of Carrying and Sparklings’” Fulcrum read the title aloud, optical ridges rising in surprise, “You bought this at the trading post?”

“We’re flying blind when it comes to this whole carrying business,” Krok explained, “It can’t hurt to learn more. I like to be prepared.”

This was something Fulcrum knew well. As a war historian, Krok was better read than any of the Scavengers, and was always hungry to learn more about nearly any topic.

“The others will probably be carrying on out there for awhile,” Krok settled onto his berth and leaned back against the headboard, spreading his legs slightly to pat the gap between them, “Read with me?”

Fulcrum carefully sat himself down in the space offered and relaxed back against his Captain’s chest. It was an oddly intimate position, even more so than when they used the berth for _other_ purposes, and Fulcrum found his systems heating up despite himself.

“Perhaps we can take care of that later,” Krok promised in a low voice, obviously able to tell that the K-con was getting more than a little turned on, “Let’s try to get through a few chapters of this first.”

Gently plucking the datapad from Fulcrum’s hands, Krok turned it on and held it out so that the both of them could comfortably read it. One hand scrolled down whenever Fulcrum made a little noise to indicate he’d finished the section, while the other stayed occupied stroking up and down the K-con’s abdominal plating. The contents of the bookfile was a conscious reminder of just what lay under that plating. Namely, Fulcrum’s gestation chamber, working away busily to prepare the sparkling’s body. For now, the newspark was still attached to its carrier’s spark, growing every day as it absorbed energy to sustain itself. According to the bookfile, it would be a few weeks yet before the newspark descended into the gestation chamber to join with the tiny spark chamber and brain module forming there even now.

Krok let himself press a little more firmly as he continued the massage, feeling how the plating under his hand flexed and gave before reaching the firmer mass of the gestation chamber underneath. Soon enough, the distention would become obvious to the eye and it would be undeniable that Fulcrum was carrying.

Even if the K-con’s condition wasn’t yet visible, though, carrying protocols were still affecting him strongly. They only managed to make it about a quarter way through the bookfile before Fulcrum’s cooling fans clicked on and he let out a little whine. His aft rubbed back against Krok’s pelvis, seeking stimulation, and it was clear there would be no more concentrating on reading.

“Alright, alright,” Krok turned off the datapad and set it aside to better concentrate on the needy K-con in his lap. “They weren’t lying about the ‘insatiable desire for interface’ at this stage of carrying, were they?”

“N-no, they weren’t.” Fulcrum now knew why, at least. At this stage, his gestation tank wanted as much transfluid as possible to convert to sentio metallico and other crucial metals, while the spark-charge produced at overload helped support the newspark’s development. It was still a little embarrassing to be so horny _all the goddamn time_ , but Krok certainly didn’t seem to be complaining.

“Well, then. Let’s take care of that for you.”

There was a click, then the distinctive feeling of a hard, erect spike pressing against Fulcrum’s aft. The K-con valve panel slid aside eagerly in response as Fulcrum leaned back and let his Captain take care of him.


	4. Chapter 4

Fulcrum frowned and poked at his abdomen. There was definitely more bulk there than was normal. His plating was starting to separate, protoform showing through the gaps in shimmering strips of silver, the result of his ever-expanding gestation chamber. It was clear, visible evidence of his condition.

It was also something the other Scavengers wouldn’t fail to notice. Fulcrum stepped out of his room to grab some energon before heading for the TV room to see if there was anything interesting on when he came across Misfire. And the pink jet’s sharp eyes certainly didn’t miss the changes to his fellow Scavenger’s frame.

“Aww, Pinhead, look at that! You’re showing!” A gleeful grin spread across Misfire’s face as quick fingers darted in to poke at the new development.

“Ack, Misfire, stop that!” Fulcrum squawked and did his best to dance out of the way without spilling his energon.

The jet wasn’t to be distracted from his goal that easily, though. He chased after Fulcrum, fingers poking and tickling at the K-con’s sides and front while Fulcrum shrieked and did his best to escape.

“Misfire, wait, my energon!” Fulcrum managed to put his cube down on a side table before it could be spilled, which had the side effect of giving him both hands to try and defend himself.

A slight techie frame didn’t have much hope against a big, well armored flightframe, though, and soon Fulcrum found himself backed against the couch with no more space to run.

“Our little K-coward has a belly!” Misfire was absolutely delighted, poking fingers finding their way through Fulcrum’s attempts at deflection to prod at said belly.

With all avenues of escape cut off and the frontal attack not letting up, Fulcrum saw only one solution left. Scrambling over the back of the couch, he activated his transformation cog and folded into the strong, nigh-impenetrable shell of his alt-mode.

“Aww, not fair!” Misfire pouted, coming around the couch to plop down in the little space left over.

“Misfire, what have I told you about transforming in the ship!” Krok’s voice rang out from the next room over, sharp audials having caught the distinctive sound of a transformation.

“It wasn’t me!” Misfire protested, wiggling one of Fulcrum’s stabilizing fins petulantly. “It was Fulcrum!”

“What? Why would Fulcrum-?” Krok came into the TV room and sighed when he saw Misfire seated next to a large, conspicuous piece of ordinance. The war historian in him was fascinated to see a K-con in their alt-mode, a sight usually only seen by a mech right before the explosion, while the Captain in him was just weary at seeing one of his most notorious trouble-makers being his usual annoying self. “Misfire, what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Misfire frowned and crossed his arms, “The Pinhead is just sensitive.”

“He was poking me,” Fulcrum’s voice was muffled by his alt-mode armor, but the annoyed tone was clear.

“Of course he was,” Krok pinched his nasal ridge in exasperation. And they were planning on adding a sparkling to this chaos, when he apparently already had a ship full?

Rather than try to mediate the problem, Krok opted to just let the two cool off instead. With this in mind, he plopped himself down onto the floor in front of the couch and let himself lean back until his helm clunked against Fulcrum’s shell. Sending a command to turn the tv on, he settled down to watch whatever inane programming they could pick up in this corner of the galaxy.

The sound of the television drew Crankcase into the room, the triggercon giving the bomb on the couch an odd look before slouching down onto the armrest near Fulcrum’s nose. Spinister followed not long after, chirping a quick “Hi, Fulcrum,” before grabbing the bomb and levering him upright so that the helicopter could plop down on the couch as well. The domestic image was completed when Grimlock wandered in and curled up on the floor, engine purring contentedly when Krok absently patted his snout.

They were about 30 minutes into a program about some local planet’s native flora when there was the sound of a transformation and Fulcrum unfolded back into root mode. Misfire made to wrap an arm around Fulcrum’s waist, but the K-con crossed his arms securely over his front and turned away.

“Listen, Loser. I’m, you know. Sorry. About earlier,” Misfire muttered, unable to stand the silent treatment for long.

“I don’t appreciate being poked,” Fulcrum responded, though he did relax back into the jet. “I doubt the sparkling does either.”

“Right,” Misfire’s gaze drifted down to the K-con’s belly, which looked a little rounder due to Fulcrum’s slouch. His hand was drawn to the curve like a magnet, though this time he was satisfied to just rest his palm over the warm plating. Fulcrum shifted, uncrossing his arms to put a hand over Misfire’s. It wasn’t so bad being sandwiched between the jet and Spinister when he wasn’t being prodded at.

Krok glanced back at the group on the couch, satisfied that they seemed to be getting along now. “You two made up, then?”

“As long as he doesn’t start poking me again,” Fulcrum gave Misfire a brief glare, which didn’t look threatening at all considering his position cuddling with the jet.

“Okay, fine. The newspark belly is for petting, not poking.” Misfire conceded, bowing his head to give Fulcrum a kiss on the top of his helm. That earned him a flustered squeak as the K-con’s faceplates flushed in embarrassment, and Misfire grinned in satisfaction.

Krok just rolled his optics and shook his head fondly. Life as usual on the WAP.


	5. Chapter 5

The Weak Anthropic Principal set down on another war-devastated planet with a strut-shaking thud, a fairly gentle landing by Scavenger standards. Disembarking from their ship, the five Decepticons (and one Autobot) stared out across a vast, corpse strewn battlefield. It was utterly silent aside from the soft whine of the WAP’s engines cooling down.

“Welp, let’s get started!” Misfire clapped his hands together eagerly, looking out across the killing fields with a broad grin. “There’s got to be at least a few poor sods out there that still have some sips of innermost energon left in them.”

“Misfire, head North. Take Grimlock with you, try not to lose him. Radio if you find anything worthwhile,” Krok pointed in the direction indicated, watching as the pink jet shot off into the air with a thundering dynobot following along on the ground. “Spinister, Crankcase, head east. Fulcrum, you’re with me.”

The Scavengers split off as ordered, on the hunt for anything useful or of value. Fulcrum moved a little slower than the rest, a combination of the exhaustion that still continued to plague him along with the increasing mass of his gestation chamber weighing him down.

“You alright, Fulcrum?” Krok checked in, keen optics scanning the ground for intact bodies.

“Fine,” Fulcrum responded, rubbing at his backstrut as he bent down to look closer at the decapitated remains of a genericon. There was a persistent ache in his joints, particularly his hips and ankles, but he could power through it. The book said such things were common at this point as his body adjusted to the weight he was gaining. “Just tired.”

“You can wait in the WAP if you need to.” Krok offered, not wanting to work the first-time carrier too hard.

“No, I’m fine. Really.” Fulcrum insisted, sighing as he realized that the genericon had bled out long ago. He instead focused on giving the corpse’s subspace pocket a little jumpstart so that it could be opened and rifled through. There usually wasn’t too much to find, some extra weapon cartridges, random trinkets that had been important to the mech in life, pict files of friends and loved ones; but sometimes there was something more useful.

Fulcrum let out a thoughtful sound as he picked up a small, crinkly packet and opened it up. The outside was labelled “Rust Sticks,” which were a type of sweet. Fulcrum hadn’t seen them before, but he’d heard other Decepticons talk them up extensively when reminiscing over life before the war, or imagining what they’d do once the war was won.

“What do you have there?” Krok asked, wandering over to see what the K-con had found. “Oh, rust sticks, I haven’t had those in ages.”

“Want one? I assume they’re still good,” Fulcrum gave the packet a sniff, but his olfactories didn’t pick up anything beyond the faint scent of iron. “I mean, they’re covered in rust, but I guess that’s the point.”

“Have you never had rust sticks?” It was both amusing and a bit surprising to Krok. “You should have one first, then. They were a very popular treat before the war. In fact, I’ve heard they were especially popular with carriers.”

“Really?” Fulcrum examined the treat closely before giving one of the sticks a nibble and letting the material roll across his chemoreceptors. Immediately, the sweet taste of the iron hit him and Fulcrum let out an involuntary moan. No wonder rust sticks had been so popular, they were _amazing_. He crunched open the rough exterior of the candy to reach the gelled energon interior and the taste only improved.

Before he knew it, Fulcrum had finished the first rust stick and started on a second, the sweets satisfying some deep line of coding that he had been unaware of until that moment. Probably something to do with the ‘carrier coding’ that his book had mentioned, which would apparently get stronger and stronger the further along he got.

“Well, then. That bookfile wasn’t kidding about carriers craving energon sweets and goodies, was it?”

Krok’s amused voice brought Fulcrum back to reality, and he looked down to see that there was only a single rust stick left. He must have eaten all of the rest, though he didn’t really remember doing so.

“Uh, you can have the last one. If you want.” Fulcrum held out the packet, rather embarrassed he had inhaled an entire package of the things like a starved empty.

It was clear that Krok was tempted, but he held up a hand. “No, it’s obvious you need the iron and energon. Go ahead.”

Fulcrum hesitated, but his cravings won out and he slowly ate the last one. Though he did his best to savor it, there was still a faint tang of disappointment as he swallowed the last bit. He still very much wanted more, but it was a ridiculous wish. The Scavengers barely had enough credits to get cheap engex, much less energon goodies.

The sparkling would just have to be satisfied with the mid-grade energon Misfire and Spinister had whipped up, supplemented by whatever they managed to syphon while on-planet. Fulcrum slowly got to his pedes and walked on to the next mostly-intact body in the hopes of finding something a little more useful.

As the two wandered through the old battlefield, scanning over the remains of thousands of mecha strewn across the dusty, dead ground, Krok found himself clicking the green index finger he held in his hand. At this point, clicking was more of a nervous habit for Krok than anything else. He no longer tried to delude himself that his old unit was still out there, they were dead and nothing would bring them back. But the anxiety still ate at him when the members of his current unit were out of his sight, and so he clicked.

Reflexively, Krok glanced down at the index finger/spark detector, checking the number displayed to reassure himself that his crew were all still alive and accounted for. The strategist then paused and did a double take. The number should have been Five, one for each Scavenger. (Grimlock, as an Autobot, didn’t register to the scanner) Instead, the display read Seven.

Frowning, Krok opened a commline to the other Scavengers. ::Report, have any of you found anything of interest?::

He received back a chorus of negatives from Crankcase, Spinister, and Misfire. They hadn’t even found any fully intact mecha, much less two live ones.

“Something wrong, Krok?” Fulcrum asked, concerned by how his Captain was contemplating the finger in his hand.

“I’m not sure.” Krok admitted, looking up to meet the K-con’s optics. Then his gaze slid down, drawn to the curve of Fulcrum’s midsection, and he had an idea. “Actually, I may know what it is.” Lifting his arm, Krok opened his comm again. ::Spinister, can you come meet me at my location?::

::Can do.:: Spinister dropped off the comm line, and the sound of his rotors became audible a few kliks later. Dirt and debris flew about, kicked up by the helicopter’s rotor wash, until he transformed and landed next to Krok.

“Can your scanner pick up on how many spark signatures Fulcrum has?” Krok questioned, curious to find out if his theory was correct.

“Uh, sure Krok.” Spinister pulled out his medical scanner, giving it a few slaps until it reluctantly flickered online.

“What do you mean ‘how many spark signatures’?” Fulcrum asked nervously as Spinister advanced on him.

“I think my spark detector is picking up on the sparkling.” Krok explained for the somewhat panicky K-con. “But it’s sensing two extra sparks, not one. I just want to check things.”

Spinister ran the scanner over Fulcrum from helm to pelvis, poking at the screen to try to get it to display the desired results. “Well, look at that. Fulcrum’s got three spark signatures.”

“Wait, what? Three?” Fulcrum cycled his optics, staring at the results on the scanner. A techie he might have been, he was still no medic and the display made no sense to him. “No, it should be two, right? Mine and the newspark?”

“Nope, yours and two newsparks.” Spinister nodded confidently. “You’re carrying twins.”

“T-twins?” One of Fulcrum’s hands pressed to his chestplate, over the newsparks, while the other went to his helm. He swayed a bit, suddenly feeling rather faint, and found himself being caught by Spinister’s sturdy arms.

“Easy, Fulcrum.” Krok can over and rubbed a hand soothingly down the K-con’s back. “Do you want to go back to the WAP and sit for awhile?”

The offer was tempting, but Fulcrum didn’t want to sit about on his aft while the others scrounged for the energon to feed them. He would need much more than his usual share, with two sparklings to support instead of just one, he needed to help with the work.

“No, I’ll be okay.” Fulcrum carefully extracted himself from Spinister’s arms and found his pedes again. “Just surprised, is all. I can keep searching.”

“If you say so.” Krok couldn’t deny that they really did need to have all hands on deck when scavenging. He would just have to keep a careful optic on the K-con, to make sure he didn’t over exert himself.

Spinister flew off to re-join Crankcase, and the groups got back to their gruesome tasks.

When night fell, the Scavengers re-convened at the WAP rather than striking camp out in the wastes. Crankcase had found an intact body with enough energon left inside for all of them to have a cube, with some leftover for the WAP’s engines, so there was time for a bit of a celebration.

Misfire felt even more like celebrating when he heard the news about the newsparks.

“So, twins!” The jet threw an arm around Fulcrum’s shoulders, making the K-con clap a hand over his mouth as he tried to suppress the purge response the sudden movement had caused. Syphoned energon was still a little difficult for him to keep down. “Wow! How great is that? I mean, I guess we must be pretty good, if we managed to spark you twice!”

“And what do you mean by that?” Fulcrum asked with a frown once he was confident his tank was no longer in the mood to rebel.

“I mean, it takes two mechs to make a newspark.” Misfire wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully. “And it takes a hell of a mech to spark twins.”

“And who says you’re the sire?” Crankcase’s usual frown deepened. “We’ve all interfaced Fulcrum.”

“I mean, if we’re just looking at which of us is the most _virile_.” Misfire didn’t possess even a hint of modesty, even in the face of an irritated Crankcase.

“Well, you might be one of the sires.” Spinister admitted. “But not the other. The twins have different spark types, so, different sires.”

“Well, no matter who exactly the sire is, we’ll all treat them the same.” Krok said firmly. “Fulcrum is one of the crew, and that means the sparklings are too. That means they’re _ours_.”

And the rest of the Scavengers could raise their cubes to that.


	6. Chapter 6

Fulcrum was forced to walk through the cellblocks at Styx, arms cuffed behind him and an energon prod at his back as the other prisoners laughed and jeered at him. Tears streamed down his face and his vents heaved from stress as every step took him closer to his own deactivation, terror filling every circuit until he couldn’t even think to beg for his life anymore.

The weight of his gestation chamber sat heavily in his abdomen, and twin newsparks shivered against his spark in confusion at feeling so much fear from their carrier. Fulcrum sobbed as he lamented the two little ones who would never have a chance to live.

“I’m sorry,” Fulcrum whispered, over and over, “I’m sorry, so sorry.” Sorry that he had run, that he was a coward, that he had failed so badly at protecting the sparklings who relied so totally on him.

Looming over him was the Traitor’s Wheel, still decorated with the energon of the last victim. Pain exploded in Fulcrum’s wrists and ankles as he was forced onto the spikes, making the slight techie scream as around him the guards laughed and placed bets on how long he’d last.

Fulcrum shot awake with an aborted scream, fans spinning furiously as they tried to cool his overheating body. The phantom sensations of pain in his wrists and ankles faded, but the distress from the sparklings remained. Taking several deep, slow vents, Fulcrum did his best to calm his whirling spark.

“It’s okay. We’re okay.” Fulcrum murmured, trying to reassure both himself and the twins that the memory of Styx had just been a bad dream. Since it was clear that he wouldn’t be getting back to recharge just laying there, Fulcrum swung his legs off the berth and headed out into the hallway.

The halls of the WAP were silent and dark, patches of rust decorating the grey walls. Usually reassuringly familiar, to a Fulcrum still addled from his nightmare it was uncomfortably similar to Styx.

Something shifted in the darkness at the end of the hallway, then there was the ‘choom’ of an energon weapon firing and a smoking hole appeared in the bulkhead just above Fulcrum’s helm.

“Spinister, it’s me!” Only one mech on the WAP would shoot first, ask questions never. Fulcrum was just fortunate the helicopter was shooting to warn, not kill. Unlike Misfire, Spinister always hit the targets he aimed for.

“Hi Fulcrum.” Spinister holstered his weapon and wandered over, “I heard something earlier. Screaming, I think. What’re you doing out?”

“Yeah, that was just me.” Fulcrum rubbed the back of his helm sheepishly. “I had a bit of a nightmare. I don’t think I’ll be able to fall into recharge again; thought I might take a walk.”

“Oh, okay. Mind if I join you?”

Fulcrum shrugged. “Sure. I could use the company.”

Despite Spinister’s tendency to try and fistfight random shadows, he still made Fulcrum feel better. The fellow Scavenger’s presence reminded the K-con where and when he was. On the WAP, safe and sound, no prison or torture wheels in sight.

It wasn’t too long before Fulcrum’s pace began to slow and he started to nod off on his pedes. Nightmare or no, the carrier needed as much recharge as he could manage. Spinister steered them back towards the crew quarters, nudging the drowsy K-con through the door of the helicopter’s own habsuite. Fulcrum offered no resistance as he was helped onto the berth, curling up as Spinister settled around the smaller mech. With the warm frame and field of the much larger helicopter protecting him from memories of the past, Fulcrum had no trouble falling back to recharge.

The next time Fulcrum was out in the halls running from a nightmare, it was Grimlock that found him. The Dynobot didn’t say anything, just let out a soft whine as he nudged Fulcrum with his big snout.

“Hey, Grimlock.” Fulcrum gave the Dynobot a gentle pat. “I’m alright, just tired. I keep having nightmares, about the past. I know I’m scaring the twins, hell, I’m scaring myself too.” He self-consciously ran a hand down his front, doing best to send calming feelings to the sparklings. It wasn’t easy when he was still so shaken up.

“Ful-crum.” Grimlock reassured him haltingly, large engine rumbling a gentle note. The Dynobot slowly walked next to Fulcrum as they wandered the hallways in companionable silence.

Passing the TV Room, Fulcrum paused when he heard noise from inside and poked his head in. Crankcase was slouched on the couch, facing the television but not really focusing on it. Likely, he had it on just for the background noise and visuals.

“Couldn’t recharge?” Fulcrum asked as he stepped into the room, Grimlock following behind him.

Crankcase snorted in response. “Not tired.”

A bald-faced lie, but Fulcrum let it pass. “What’re you watching?”

The triggercon shrugged his large shoulders, “Whatever’s on.”

“Can I watch with you?” Zoning out at some mindless programming seemed infinitely preferable to going back to his room and the nightmares.

“Be my guest.” Crankcase shuffled sideways a bit to make some space, quickly relaxing back into his sprawl as Fulcrum settled next to him. Unable to fit on the couch, Grimlock opted to settle on the floor in front of the pair and vented a heavy, content sigh.

Fulcrum leaned back and did his best to get comfortable, one hand stroking over the curve of his belly in a self-soothing gesture. The stress of the earlier nightmare was fading, and as Fulcrum calmed, so did the sparklings inside him. Their energy returned to the usual gentle hum at the back of his spark, and Fulcrum felt his optics start to flicker off. The hum of Crankcase’s systems and the brush of his EM field satisfied the lines of carrier coding that desired safety, protection, and companionship.

Crankcase stayed where he was even as Fulcrum drifted back into recharge and slumped sideways until his head rested against the other Scavenger’s thigh. He just moved one hand down from the back of the couch to rest on the K-con’s shoulder, glad that at least one of them could get some rest.

Krok wandered into the television room, sipping on a can of engex idly when he caught sight of the couch and stopped in surprise. It was quite the sweet domestic scene, with no chaos or mess in sight. Unusual aboard the WAP.

Crankcase was seated on the couch in his usual spot, frown on his face and visor watching the TV. Curled up beside him was Fulcrum, deep in recharge with his head in the triggercon’s lap. One of Crankcase’s hands was gently petting Fulcrum’s rounded belly.

“He starts to wake up if I stop petting him.” Crankcase muttered in explanation when he saw Krok staring.

Krok didn’t say anything, just nodded before turning and walking out to leave the two in peace.

The solution to Fulcrum’s nightmare turned out to be simple: he just couldn’t recharge alone. With someone else there in the berth, their frame and field against his, it was easy enough to remember where he was and that he was safe if the bad memories of his past tried to rear their ugly heads.

Though carrying undoubtably made Fulcrum’s need to have others around much stronger, none of the Scavengers was immune to it. There wasn’t an Autobot or Decepticon in the galaxy that had made it through 4 million years of war without the horrors leaving an impact.

When things got bad and the past loomed uncomfortably close, it wasn’t unusual for the Scavengers to recharge together, all in a pile. As the smallest, Fulcrum often ended up in the middle, moreso now than ever. Sire coding wasn’t quite as strong as carrier coding, but it was still affecting the other Scavengers. Such deep coding pushed them to ensure their carrier was well cared for and protected.

Misfire was an absolute cuddle slut, and tended to plaster himself to Fulcrum, or whoever else was nearest, like a leech. Crankcase tended to steer clear of him for that reason, choosing a spot near the edge to try to keep anyone from brushing against his exposed brain module and wanting to discourage too much outright affection from ruining his grumpy aura.

As the largest Scavenger, Spinister fit best around the outside, a heavy arm flung across the others carelessly as his snores rumbled the pile. Krok usually tucked himself in next to the helicopter, well positioned to stand between his crew and any danger. Finishing off the barrier around their gravid K-con was Grimlock, his enormous beast mode taking up any extra space.

There were some demons that only the presence of friends could banish away. With the other Scavengers, Crankcase could forget a hulking figure, the flash of a weapon, and the explosion of pain in his hewn-open helm. Misfire clung like a limpet to his nearest companion, secure in the knowledge that he had found a crew that appreciated him as he was, poor aim and hyper personality and all. Spinister could truly enter a deep defrag cycle, trusting the others to guard against the eyes that lurked in the darkness. Grimlock slumbered, broken mind able to leave the scrambled memories of past torture behind for a time. Krok touched each of his crew in turn, reassuring himself that each and every one of his Unit was there, safe and whole, each time he worried otherwise. In the center, Fulcrum was able to settle into the deep recharge his frame needed, unbroken by the nightmares of his past. And inside him, two small sparks rested, knowing nothing except that they were loved.


	7. Chapter 7

Fulcrum frowned and twisted from side to side as he tried to work out the tightness in his back. He had almost gotten used to having a sore upper back and shoulders, the result of heavy bomb-mode kibble being added to a frame never meant to support such things, but this ache was lower. Right in the hollow of his back, where the weight of carrying sat the heaviest. The K-con sighed and rubbed at the spot. He wasn’t even halfway through his carrying cycle, and wasn’t looking forward to the future weight gain he knew to expect.

“Need help?”

Fulcrum’s back plating flared instinctively as he startled at the new voice, hands coming around to wrap around and protect his torso plating. Then the EM field of the other mech registered and his relaxed slightly. For such a big mech, Spinister could be very quiet when he wanted. “Hey Spinister.”

“It looks like your back hurts, want help?” The helicopter repeated his offer, raising his hands to make it clear what he meant.

Spinister was a strange mech to go to for a massage, but he _was_ very talented with his hands. After a moment's deliberation, Fulcrum turned away to present his back to the helicopter. The K-con’s plating tensed at the first touch to his backstrut, but then fingers found his pressure points with unerring accuracy and Fulcrum let out a moan.

The stiffness and pain melted away, making Fulcrum relax under Spinister’s hands. It felt so, _so_ good, and Fulcrum idly wondered if he could get Spinister to do this for him every day. Fulcrum leaned forward as best he could, until his belly pressed to his thighs, and put his elbows on his knees for support. As Spinister continued to work, Fulcrum went completely limp and let the Helicopter have his way.

Fulcrum could’ve fallen into recharge right there, but his interfacing array had other ideas. The warmth spreading through his frame from Spinister’s fingers was concentrating in his pelvis, until it was a nigh-unbearable pinpoint of heat. Letting out a needy little whimper, Fulcrum rocked his hips and rubbed his interfacing panel against the seat of the couch.

“I can help with that too,” Spinister knew exactly what the carrier needed. One of his hands left Fulcrum’s back plating and worked around to the front, wiggling down underneath the K-con’s belly and between his thighs.

Fulcrum’s valve panel snapped open at the first touch, allowing a thick finger to gently press inside. The K-con shifted until he was leaning back instead of forward, allowing Spinister better access as he rocked against the helicopter’s hand. A second finger slipped in, then a third, testing to see how stretched Fulcrum was. The answer was “very,” the K-con’s calipers eagerly opening up to try and draw in Spinister’s fingers even deeper.

Just then, though, the fingers were pulled way, making Fulcrum’s engine whine sadly from the loss. Spinister chuckled, “Don’t worry, I got ya.”

Coming around the couch, Spinister opened his panel and let his spike extend heavy and proud. It bobbed a little under its own weight, a bit of trans-fluid drippling from the tip, and Fulcrum’s valve calipers clenched in anticipation. The helicopter was a large mech, and his spike certainly was proportional to his size.

Spinister wiped a hand wet with Fulcrum’s lubricant down his length before grabbing the K-con and hoisting him into the air. Fulcrum let out an undignified squeak as he was lifted off the couch and mech-handled into a new position. Then Spinister flopped down onto the couch and sat Fulcrum down on his lap, right onto his spike.

Fulcrum’s optics flared to near-white as he was suddenly speared, though the earlier stretching combined with just how wet he was meant there was no pain, only pleasure. He could’ve sworn he felt the thick spike hit the ceiling node at the top of his valve, just before the seal on his gestation chamber. ‘Of Carrying and Sparklings’ cautioned against interfacing too roughly, lest his gestational seal get damaged and trigger early emergence, the knowledge breaking through the haze taking over his processor.

“C-careful,” Fulcrum gasped, “The sparklings-“

“I know, I know. I’ll be gentle,” Spinister promised, “Krok made me read that book like three times.”

A part of Fulcrum was surprised that Spinister could read, the rest impressed that the helicopter had actually gone through the effort of reading about carrying. One of the helicopter’s big hands caressed his glowing chestplate, thumb squeaking against the glass the hid his spark chamber and the two little newsparks inside, while the other ventured lower. Fulcrum moaned loudly when Spinister’s fingers brushed down his belly to rub at his anterior node and along the lips of his valve where he was spread obscenely wide around the helicopter’s spike.

Spinister rocked his hips in time with the rubbing of his fingers, listening to roar of Fulcrum’s cooling fans and his engine speed up in tandem.

“Ah, Spin, I’m gonna. I’m gonna-“ Fulcrum arched and pressed himself back into Spinister’s solid chassis as overload crashed over him. The helicopter was still hard inside him, though, and as Fulcrum cooled down he could tell that his charge had not abated. Carrier coding demanded transfluid, and wouldn’t let him rest until he got it.

“Alright, now that you’re warmed up.” Clutching Fulcrum tightly to his front, Spinister stood and repositioned them to put the K-con on his knees and his face down into the couch cushions. Fulcrum’s moans came out muffled as the helicopter sank back into him and found a regular, thrusting rhythm. Spinister’s vents came in sharp grunts with each snap of his pelvis, one of his large hands helping support the weight of Fulcrum’s gestation chamber while the other had a hard grip on the K-con’s hip for better leverage.

Fulcrum’s valve calipers clenched down with his second overload, bringing Spinister over as well with a shout as he emptied himself into the K-con’s valve. With a tired wheeze, Fulcrum flopped over onto his side, utterly unresisting as Spinister produced a rag and started to clean him up.

Then the door to the TV room opened and Crankcase froze at the sight that greeted him. “Oh come on, guys, really? On the couch?!”


	8. Chapter 8

Life on the Weak Anthropic Principal continued on as it often did, with long periods of boredom between planetside scavenging runs. Of course, considering the type of excitement their little group tended to get up to when stopping at planets, Fulcrum was more than happy to sit around and repeatedly best the others at Jenga. He wasn’t feeling mobile enough to play Shoot Shoot, Bang Bang anymore, and the others were far more creative than he when it came to vandalizing their own Autopedia entries. According to his book, his current state of constant exhaustion would pass once the sparklings separated and no longer needed to draw directly on his spark, but for now Fulcrum’s energy levels weren’t suited to much more than sitting on the couch.

When they landed on another planet to scrounge, though, Fulcrum still got himself up and out of the ship to help recover what they could. He knew none of the other Scavengers would’ve blamed him if he stayed inside, but Fulcrum felt bad enough about the rate he was guzzling their energon supplies. They needed more fuel to keep him and the sparklings fed, and Fulcrum felt obligated to help find it.

It was about when a hulking organic creature came charging at them that Fulcrum really regretted his decision not to stay on the ship.

The Scavengers all pulled out their weapons as the alien beast roared, baring huge fangs and swinging enormous claws. Krok squeezed off a few shots which splattered harmlessly against the thing’s thick fur. “Fulcrum, get back to the WAP!” He had barely gotten the words out when a swipe from the beast sent Krok flying.

“Krok!” Against his better judgement, Fulcrum did not run. People got hurt when he ran, whether it was the technicians under his command at B’lahr, or the Scavengers from the DJD. So, instead of fleeing for his life, Fulcrum pulled out a pulse-rifle and fired. He wasn’t great with a gun, but every Deceptcon grunt had been run through basic weapons handling and was at least a better shot than Misfire. (Admittedly, that wasn’t any great boast)

The shot distracted the beast from chasing down Krok, at least, though it didn’t seem to do much more than piss the thing off. Fulcrum fired again, this time managing to take out one of the thing’s eyes with a disgusting wet squelch and a spray of green organic fluids. Unfortunately, this still didn’t slow its charge.

Fulcrum barely had time to turn away from the swipe of the huge claws, putting his more heavily armored back in the line of fire as he was knocked off his pedes.

“Fulcrum!” The other Scavengers continued to fire, but energy weapons didn’t seem to be able to penetrate the beast’s thick pelt. It was too distracted by the weakly struggling prey under its claws. The dirt of the organic world stung the claw marks that had been torn in his back plating, and Fulcrum let out a little whimper as enormous fangs lowered.

A furious roar echoed through the trees as Grimlock appeared from out of nowhere, leaping up onto the beast’s back to plunge his sword through the back of the thing’s head. Alien blood splattered across Fulcrum as the weight pinning him down vanished and the beast slumped over, decapitated and quite dead.

Anxious faces surrounded Fulcrum as he was helped back upright, plating rattling and fans roaring full force.

“Are you okay? Are the sparklings okay?” Misfire demanded, hands fluttering over the K-con’s front as he tried to clean off some of the alien fluids and dirt.

“I- I’m okay.” Fulcrum managed, trying to calm his whirling spark. There was an ache growing in his chest, stress causing the sparklings to pulse out of time with his spark in a very uncomfortable way. “They’re okay too. Just scared.”

“We’re all fraggin’ scared.” Misfire huffed a sigh of relief and stepped back once he realized that all he was doing was spreading the mess around and getting it on himself as well. “Ugh, you need a bath.”

“Fulcrum, back to the WAP with me. I’ll help you get cleaned off.” Krok ordered, resting a hand on the K-con’s shoulder. “The rest of you, see if you can find that bunker we came here for. And keep an audial out for more of those things.” He gave the dead beast’s head a derisive kick.

Fulcrum was more than happy to follow his commander back to the ship, wanting nothing more to get the disgusting organic fluids off of his frame before it had a chance to dry. Krok kept up a fast pace back to the ship despite limping with one leg, and Fulcrum winced when he saw a few sparks sputter with each step. “Krok, your leg-“

“It’s fine.” Krok cut him off, showing no discomfort. “I want to get you looked at first.”

Honestly, besides being rather shaken up and getting some shallow cuts on his back, Fulcrum felt okay. He’d certainly had worse. Krok seemed so determined, though, that Fulcrum just allowed himself to be herded to the WAP’s single, dingy washrack.

The solvent sputtered on, cold and harsh from the overhead nozzle, and Fulcrum couldn’t keep in a hiss when it encountered the cuts on his back.

“You’re hurt.” Fire flashed in Krok’s red optics as he spun Fulcrum around to get a look at the gashes left by the beast’s claws. “You damned fool. Why didn’t you run back to the ship when I told you?”

“And leave you to be killed by that- that thing?” Fulcrum couldn’t get the image of Krok being flung through the air like a toy out of his processor. “I know I’m a coward, but I’m not just going to run when you guys are in danger. I’ve had worse than a few cuts.”

“Not while carrying!” Krok exclaimed. He vented deeply, letting the anger run out. Instead of yelling more, he grabbed a grubby rag and began gently wiping the congealing blood from Fulcrum’s chestplate and abdomen. “The rest of us can take a few hits, you can’t. The sparklings depend on you for everything.”

Feeling properly chastised, Fulcrum hung his head and brought up his hands to cup the curve of his belly. “I’m sorry.”

“When that alien knocked you down, I was more terrified than I’ve ever been.” Krok admitted. “Maybe it’s just the siring protocols, but nothing is more important to me, to all of us, right now than keeping you and the little ones safe. Next time I give you an order, I expect it to be followed.”

“Yes sir.” Fulcrum allowed himself to relax back into Krok’s sturdy frame, letting the soft rag gently rubbing across his chestplate and down his belly sooth the tension from his shoulders and the stress from his spark.

Krok’s EM field extended out to mingle with Fulcrum’s, full of intensive protectiveness with a hint of fear. Fulcrum responded back with soothing comfort, reassuring his commanding officer that he and the sparklings were really just fine. He hadn’t meant to scare them all by throwing himself into danger. For once, it was okay for Fulcrum to be a coward. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help but bring the Lost Light crew into this.

Krok was worried. He spent much of his time keeping a careful eye on Fulcrum, making sure the carrier fueled properly and didn’t get woken by nightmares when he recharged. Still, Fulcrum seemed to be flagging. He grew more tired day by day, frequently falling into recharge while sitting on the couch or in the middle of a conversation. While the book said carriers should expect to be tired as they got closer to the sparkling separating, Krok thought this was a little too much.

His concerns only grew when Fulcrum stood up from the couch one afternoon and collapsed. Fortunately, Crankcase was close enough to catch the K-con and lower him back down to the couch while he slowly rebooted.

Spinister came in to take a look at that point, and the prognosis wasn’t good. Both sparklings were drawing hard on Fulcrum’s spark energy as they prepared to become independent, and the K-con just didn’t have enough to give. A single sparkling was difficult enough for a normal mech’s system to support, but two? Well, Fulcrum was no point-one percenter.

There wasn’t a whole lot they could do without advanced medical equipment and a trained medic, besides keep Fulcrum well fueled and to interface whenever the K-con could muster up the energy, so that the other Scavengers could contribute some of their sparks as well.

“Are there any outposts nearby with medical clinics outfitted for Cybertronians?” Krok found himself asking Crankcase one day, the pair of them on the bridge pouring over starcharts of the area.

“Not much in this sector of space.” Crankcase grunted in response, hiding his concern for Fulcrum under gruffness.

“Why not ask that dot?” Spinister questioned as he wandered onto the WAP’s bridge. “Maybe they know?”

“What d-“ Krok looked up to see that a small, blinking dot has appeared on their radar. Another ship. It’s ID ping showed that it was Cybertronian, registered Autobot.

“Autobots,” Crankcase noted with a snarl. “And us without any exterior weaponry.”

“The war is over.” Krok reminded him. While the WAP’s Captain had no love for Autobots, the vessel ‘Lost Light’ appeared to be a good-sized ship, and wasn’t any model that Krok knew. Which meant it wasn’t a warship. “There’s a chance they might have a trained medic who can help Fulcrum.”

“If they don’t shoot us first.” Crankcase mumbled. Still, he went to the WAP’s crotchety communications system and fired it up.

The communications request was accepted after a tense moment, and the telecom screen flickered online to show an orange and yellow Autobot. _“You’ve got the Lost Light, with Blaster at the comm. Gotta say, we don’t get many calls from Decepticons.”_

“This is Commander Krok of the Weak Anthropic Principal.” Krok squared his shoulders and kept his voice strong, wanting to present a strong face to the Autobots despite his ramshackle ship and scraped together crew. “One of my men is in need of urgent medical assistance. Are you capable of rendering aid?”

There was a flurry of conversation on the other end of the line, just out of range of the mic pickups. Crankcase’s frown deepened, “They’re never gonna help us.”

“They’re Autobots, soft and altruistic at spark.” Krok countered. “All else fails, we look as pathetic as possible and hope they feel bad for us.”

Crankcase snorted in response. Admittedly, with their crew and ship, that wouldn’t be hard to do.

Of course, Krok had another card to play in his hand as well. As the Autobot Blaster returned to the communications console, Krok made another offer. “I also have an Autobot on board my ship who I would like to try and return to his faction. I can send him to your ship in exchange for medical aid.”

“ _You’re holding Autobot prisoner_?” Another face intruded on the video-call, this one instantly recognizable as the indomitable law-enforcer Ultra Magnus.

Clearly, Krok would have to play this carefully. “He is not our prisoner. We found Grimlock in a stasis pod on a crashed ship and brought him aboard. He has some sort of processor damage, but we don’t have the medical equipment to diagnose or treat the problem.”

“ _You have Grimlock_?!” Yet another face intruded on the other end of the line, this a young racing-frame with an obnoxious flame decal across his chest.

More furious discussion broke out on the other end of the line, the sound of arguing clear even if Krok couldn’t make out the words. It seemed he’d managed to find a ship with a crew even more dysfunctional than his own.

There was one last angle that Krok could try. Playing on their Autobot sympathies. He adjusted his stance to look less confident and more meek, looking down at his pedes to try and appear contrite. It wasn’t a hard act; he really was desperately concerned for Fulcrum. “Please. A member of my crew is carrying. If he doesn’t receive medical help, we might lose him and the sparklings. You do not have to like Decepticons, but have compassion for the unborn who have nothing to do with our war.”

That one finally worked, and Krok received confirmation that the Lost Light would be sending over a shuttle with a medic and two security mechs, in case of “funny business.” Crankcase went down to the shuttle bay to try and coax the airlock into functioning, while Krok checked in on Fulcrum. The K-con was in his berth, recharging as he did most of the time now. Misfire was perched next to him, gently stroking Fulcrum’s sides with an uncharacteristic expression of worry on his face.

“I made contact with an Autobot ship, they’re sending over a medic to have a look at Fulcrum and the sparklings.” Krok informed the jet, “Don’t worry, Misfire. They’ll be fine.”

Ratchet looked around the Decepticon ship with critical optics as he stepped out of the shuttle, Ultra Magnus and Drift right behind him for protection detail. The ship was clearly in poor shape, with rust tinging the bulkheads, many of which had gaping holes exposing circuitry underneath, and half the overhead lights were either flickering fitfully or completely dead. To put it mildly: the place was a dump.

The first con they saw was a stout blue grounder with a scowl and half of his helm missing. Primus, the mech’s brain module was exposed and clearly visible. Ratchet’s hands twitched, wanting to assess the damage, but according to what he’d been told, this wasn’t the patient he’d been sent to treat. The head wound was clearly quite old, which made Ratchet wonder why nobody had bothered to fix it yet, and the mech didn’t seem hampered by it.

Then they were met by the ship’s Captain, a rather short mech with no obvious alt mode. In fact, Ratchet had a deep suspicion that if he got a closer look at this ‘Krok’s’ back, he’d see a surgery scar. A pilot with a severe head injury and a commanding officer who was a monoformer with no in-built weaponry, what a strange group of Decepticons.

Commander Krok narrowed his optics at the sight of Drift, but didn’t start yelling about traitors or try to shoot the ex-Decepticon, so that was another point in the monoformer’s favor in Ratchet’s opinion.

Leaving the shuttle bay, a large, garishly painted rotary mech suddenly joined the group. Everyone visibly tensed, even Krok, but the helicopter only looked at Ratchet. “You the medic here for Fulcrum? ‘Cause he’s hanging on now, but I dunno how long he can last. His spark isn’t strong enough to support two sparklings fissioning at once.”

“This is Spinister, our surgeon.” Krok explained to Ratchet, who seemed a bit surprised to be suddenly receiving medical advice from a mech without any form of medic markings. “He’s brilliant at field surgery, but we don’t have the knowledge or equipment to handle a difficult carriage.”

Ratchet hummed in acknowledgement, though he found himself doubting the validity of that claim when he looked back at the “brilliant surgeon” and found him staring at his hand, apparently completely engrossed.

“He does that sometimes,” Krok said almost apologetically before stopping in front of a door and keying it open. “Misfire, the medic is here for Fulcrum. Go out and find Grimlock, make sure he doesn’t destroy anything.”

A pink seeker slunk out of the quarters, giving Ratchet an undeniably hopeful look before running off down the hall calling, “Grimmsy! Hey, Grimmsy!” Spinister paused for a moment before wandering off after him curiously.

Ultra Magnus gave Krok a stern warning glare before following after the jet so that he could assess Grimlock’s status himself. Ratchet gave Drift instructions to wait outside (“No buts, Drift. Medic-patient confidentiality. I’m pretty sure I can handle myself against one unconscious Decepticon”) before heading into the habsuite to examine his patient.

The mech laying on the berth had a lightweight, slight frame, though one with obvious later reframing work done, and had rounded abdominal plates that clearly advertised his condition. It had been a long time since Ratchet had seen a carrying mech, and he wondered how this little Decepticon, of all mechs, managed to be one of the first in millions of years. The carrier stirred slightly when Ratchet approached, pulling out a scanner to get a more detailed read, and the medic adjusted his field to be calm and soothing.

“You’re fine.” He murmured softly. “Go back into recharge.”

Clearly, the carrier was quite exhausted, because he just nodded and offlined his optics once more without even registering that he was being spoken to by a stranger. The results of the scan confirmed it; he was very weak. There was a chance he’d survive the fissioning of both sparklings if he had the support of the rest of his crew, but Ratchet would prefer he be brought back to the Lost Light to be put on spark support to get his strength back up. That would exponentially increase the survival chances of him and the little ones.

Ratchet went back to the door, poking his head out to see Krok and Drift still standing right where he’d left them.

“How is Fulcrum?” Krok asked immediately, worry clear in his voice.

“Weak. I’d like to bring him back to our ship for treatment. Where’s-“ Before Ratchet could ask where Ultra Magnus had gotten off to, a loud roar echoed through the hallway, followed by quite a lot of banging and yelling. Drift tensed and drew his swords, while Krok just seemed resigned. “What the hell?”

More roaring, followed by a thud and what sounded like small explosion. Quite abruptly, the entire ship was plunged into darkness as all the overhead lights went out. Ratchet and Drift immediately turned on their headlights, the glare revealing a rather annoyed looking Krok activating his comm link.

“Crankcase, what the Pit is going on? What happened to the lights?” Krok demanded as soon as he made contact with the blue grounder.

“ _What do ya think happened_?” Crankcase’s voice was tinny and tinged with static through the comm link, but the annoyance was clear. “ _Misfire said something stupid, Grimlock had a fit. Now the generator’s smashed to pieces. Wait, Spinister, NO-“_

More noise, this time that of an energy weapon firing, and suddenly gravity vanished. Ratchet, Drift, and Krok quickly grabbed the doorframe to keep themselves in place as they became weightless.

“ _Aaand, there goes the gravity generator_.” Crankcase sighed heavily through the call. _“I think I can fix it, hang on.”_

Crankcase hung up, which made the sound of a transformation cog activating inside Fulcrum’s room all the more obvious. Ratchet turned around, keeping his grip on the doorframe so he wouldn’t drift off, and frowned in confusion at the sight of a bomb floating just above the berth where his patient had been. “What the-“

Heedless of Ratchet’s earlier rant on patient confidentiality, Drift poked his head into the room as well. “Wait, is that a K-class bomb? You’ve had Ratchet in here working on a K-con?!”

“A defused K-con,” Krok explained hastily. “He’s had his payload removed, he’s no danger to anyone now.”

“Are you meaning to tell me that poor mech had a live bomb for an alt mode?” Ratchet had heard rumors of such things, but to see it in person, it was appalling. “That’s suicide!”

“That’s the point of K-squads.” Drift growled. “Mechs so fanatical, so loyal to the Decepticon cause, they’re willing to be turned into suicide bombs so they can take out as many Autobots as possible when they die.”

“Not all K-cons were willing.” Krok countered. “Sometimes, their reformats weren’t by choice. It’s why their transformation cogs are fitted with an automatic trip mechanism, so they have no choice but to transform when in freefall. Losing gravity must’ve triggered it in Fulcrum.”

“That’s sick.” Ratchet shook his head before moving into the room to concentrate more on his patient. Where Fulcrum had been in light recharge, the stress of transforming had knocked him into stasis. “He shouldn’t be able to transform this far along when carrying. Fortunately, the removal of his warhead created enough space in there that his gestation chamber isn’t being too badly squashed. Still, we need to get him onto the Lost Light and back into root mode so he can be hooked up to spark support.”

Ratchet had just gotten his hands on Fulcrum when the gravity flipped back on and the bomb fell back onto the recharge slab with a thud. Thankfully, the mech’s outer shell was resilient and the short fall caused no damage. There was still the split-second moment of terror at seeing a bomb fall to a hard surface, but, as Krok had said, with no explosive charge there was no danger.

There was the crackle of a comm activating as Crankcase called his commanding officer once more. _“Alright, got the gravity back, but the electric is still shot. So’re engines two and three. Could take awhile to perform repairs, and that’s assuming we even have parts.”_

To Krok’s credit, he did not groan or swear at the news. He just thanked Crankcase and looked to the two Autobots in his company. “It looks like we will all be coming back to your ship.”

It took a little time to round up everyone in the dark, and longer to convince Ultra Magnus that all of the Decepticons would need to return to the Lost Light. The big grounder was even less impressed to see that Ratchet’s patient was a bomb, and it took the medic showing him several detailed scans to reassure him that Fulcrum could, in no way, explode.

Then Krok had to ask if they could land the WAP in one of the Lost Light’s shuttle bays for repairs. Just the thought of a ship in violation of so many health and safety regulations coming board the Lost Light nearly crashed the Former Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord. But, without their ship, the Decepticons could be stuck aboard the Lost Light for who knows how long. It still took a call to Rodimus by Drift to get a grudging agreement out of Ultra Magnus.

Finally, Ratchet returned to the shuttle with his patient, still in bomb mode, on a hover stretcher with the mech’s commanding officer directly behind. Drift and Ultra Magnus brought up the rear, with the rest of the Scavengers staying aboard the WAP so that they could take it into Lost Light’s shuttle bay 5.

Getting an unconscious mech in their alt mode back into root could be a tricky operation, especially with compact, almost featureless alts like Fulcrum’s. For this reason, Ratchet chose to leave Fulcrum in alt until he was in the med bay with specialized equipment. Of course, this meant having to deal with the entire security team freaking out at the sight of their chief medic pushing a stretcher with a bomb on it.

Ratchet managed to talk down the security mechs before any weapons got fired, then had to say it all over again when Rodimus showed up and started shouting. Megatron, fortunately, did not yell, though his optics narrowed as he clearly recognized the bomb for the mech it actually was. Finally, Ratchet was able to push past the crowd to take his patient to the med bay, sending Drift out ahead to clear the halls to prevent any further delays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of losing gravity triggering Fulcrum's transformation is inspired by the amazing Scav fic "Homeward Bound", mostly because I thought the idea of everyone freaking out over Ratchet with a bomb for a patient to be hilarious.


	10. Chapter 10

Fulcrum groaned as he stirred, feeling rather sore and wrung out. The last thing he remembered, he’d been in recharge, and had an odd dream about falling from the sky in bomb mode only to land on a medic’s stretcher.

Onlining his optics, Fulcrum frowned in confusion at the white, well lit ceiling he was greeted with. This definitely wasn’t his room, or any room on the WAP for that matter. The lack of rust was a dead giveaway.

“Oh, good, you’re awake!”

Fulcrum turned his head towards the voice, squinting at the unfamiliar red and white mech he was greeted by. He had the clear markings of a trained medic, and an Autobot symbol in the middle of his chest.

It took a moment for the meaning of the little red sigil to register, but when it did, Fulcrum panicked. An Autobot! He thrashed on the berth only to find, to his dismay, he was strapped down and could barely move. Straining against the bonds made his chest and spark ache fiercely, which only gave further fuel to the fear screaming through Fulcrum’s systems. The sparklings! What had they done to his sparklings?! All around him, machines started to beep frantically in response to his spiking vitals, making Fulcrum aware of the variety of wires and cables running into his partly open chestplates and plugged into his various medical ports.

“Whoa, calm down! You need to calm down.” The little medic extended his field, projecting the unique calm, soothing pulse unique to medics. “You’re fine, your sparklings are fine. You’re in the medbay aboard the Lost Light.”

“My sparklings!” Fulcrum’s voice came out weak and staticky, which made him wonder just how long he’d been unconscious on his berth. “Please! Please don’t hurt them, I’ll do anything! Whatever you want, please-“

“We’re not going to hurt you, I promise.” The medic turned away, having a brief conversation with someone at the door to the room, then a familiar face appeared in Fulcrum’s field of view.

“Krok!” Relief flooded Fulcrum’s systems as he saw his commanding officer, looking whole and undamaged.

“You’re being treated for a weak spark.” Krok explained, reaching down to start undoing the straps holding Fulcrum in place. “The sparklings were drawing too hard on your spark, so I called an Autobot ship for medical assistance.”

“And the sparklings?” Right now, they were Fulcrum’s chief concern.

“They’re just fine.” Krok pointed at one of the medical monitors, and Fulcrum turned his head to see the pulse of his spark beat on display. His spark beat, and two others.

Fulcrum’s vents stuttered as he watched the two indicators pulse, each beating their own fast little rhythm in time with his. Distantly he realized that his hands were now free, so he raised them to lay them atop his chestplate, careful not to disturb all the wiring running underneath his armor. Something felt strange, though. He could feel the pulse of his spark beneath his hand, but not the two smaller ones that had been attached to his for so many months.

“The sparklings aren’t there anymore.” The medic approached again, careful to try and keep his posture as non-threatening as possible. Gently, he picked up one of Fulcrum’s hands and shifted it down to sit over the bulge of his abdomen. “Their sparks are now in their frames, here.”

“Oh,” Fulcrum let out a breath of surprise when he felt something squirm under his hand. It wasn’t a defined feeling, just an odd flutter and shift of pressure in his chamber, but somehow he knew just what it is. “It- it moved. One of the sparklings moved.”

“Yes, they’ve integrated with their frames just fine. You’ll be feeling them move more and more as they grow.” With a faceplate and visor, the medic couldn’t smile, but his field gave off the impression of it anyway as he stepped back and let the carrier connect with his little ones.

Krok remained at Fulcrum’s side, though, reaching forward to wrap his hand around the K-con’s. And there he stayed until Fulcrum had drifted back into recharge.

The next time Fulcrum awoke, he felt significantly better than last time. Most of the wiring and cables had been removed, save for the spark monitor attached to his chest and the two additional ones on his belly tracking the sparklings.

He let himself relax for a while, hands resting over the twins while he watched the beat of their sparks on the monitor. The sight would never get tiring, each little blip of the glowing lines a sign of just how alive his sparklings are.

This time, when the door opened and an Autobot stepped into the room, Fulcrum managed to tamp down his panic response to just a fitful whine of his vents. The medic waited for him to get himself back under control before approaching, idly running a scan over the K-con and checking on his vitals.

“Well, you certainly seem to be doing much better.” The medic complimented, setting down the scanner. “My designation is Ratchet, you’re in the medbay on the ship Lost Light.”

“I remember,” Fulcrum could recall another medic, feeling his sparklings move inside his gestation chamber, Krok holding his hand until he fell back into recharge. “What happens now?”

“Your spark is still recovering from the separation of the sparklings, but there’s no reason to keep you in the medbay. With rest, you’ll get back up to full strength.” Ratchet reached down to the controls for the berth, reclining the back until Fulcrum was comfortably sitting up instead of flat on his back. “There are other health concerns, though. While the sparklings are doing well so far, you are rather severely underweight and malnourished.”

“Underweight?” Fulcrum looked at the medic incredulously, hands still resting over the rather prominent swell of his belly. He certainly didn’t feel underweight.

“That is all sparkling weight.” Ratchet nodded at his midsection. “From what I can tell, you’ve actually lost protoform mass, the result of your gestation systems leaching important minerals that you aren’t getting through your diet.”

Fulcrum grimaced, thinking of the low quality energon he’d been ingesting for so long, syphoned from the tanks of dead mechs. “I didn’t exactly have much choice.”

“I know. I spoke with your commander, who told me about the type of diet you’ve had so far.” Ratchet turned away to fetch a pair of cubes from a cabinet, one empty and one full of glittering metal supplements. The empty one was filled with medical-grade energon from a dispenser on the counter, then both were set on the table at Fulcrum’s berthside. “Fortunately, you’re just 50% into your gestation, and there’s still plenty of time to get your health back up. I want you to be consuming three cubes a day, adding a scoop of supplements to each cube.” He took a small measuring scoop from the cube of minerals and dumped it into the energon, swirling it to help mix the two before handing the fuel to Fulcrum.

Taking the cube, the K-con just stared at it for a moment. The Scavengers were lucky to have enough fuel for one cube a day, and he could remember watching the others skimming from the top of their cubes to make sure that he and the sparklings got a full ration. Hell, he’d hardly gotten more than that even when he was an officer during the war. And here these Autobots were just handing him more fuel than he’d ever gotten in his life. With the medic looking on expectantly, Fulcrum sipped at the energon, optics brightening at the unexpected richness.

“This is-“ Fulcrum looked between Ratchet and the energon, “We don’t have much. I can’t afford-“

“You don’t owe us anything for the fuel.” Ratchet cut him off firmly. “I’m not going to deny you the treatment you need just because you can’t pay. Autobots don’t work like that. Now, finish that cube. Our Co-Captain wants to speak to you before you’re released.”

Fulcrum took a larger gulp of his energon, savoring the taste on his chemoreceptors, so used to the gritty, burned taste of syphoned fuel, and nearly spat it out when he saw the enormous, grey frame that stepped into the room. Instead, Fulcrum swallowed awkwardly and descended into a coughing fit.

“L-Lord Megatron!” Fulcrum managed to squeeze the words out between coughs, optics watering. He was struck by the impression that he should kneel or something, but couldn’t move too much with the spark monitors still attached to his frame.

“None of that, please.” Megatron held up a massive black servo, his deep, growling voice surprisingly quiet and soft. “On this ship it’s just Megatron. Or Captain.”

That’s right, Megatron had abandoned the cause, shacked up with the Autobots, and taken off on a ship full of them. And, just his luck, Fulcrum had managed to end up on that very ship. He sincerely hoped that becoming an Autobot meant that Megatron was no longer interested in torturing Decepticons that were on The List.

“Now, then. I’ve talked to the other mechs in your unit, and I wanted to talk to you as well.” Megatron pulled up a stool and settled his frame onto it with the groan of old hydraulics, “This is an Autobot ship, and I am an Autobot now. No scheme or takeover plans, just an old mech trying to make amends for all he’s done. I will not force you to give up your Decepticon badge, but nor will I tolerate any fights, verbal abuse, or harassment on this ship. From you, or towards you. Ratchet assures me he can continue treating you just as well in the brig if you start causing trouble. However, if any ‘bots on this ship threaten you, I also expect you to bring that to me.”

“Right. Can do.” Fulcrum held up a hand in a shaky thumbs up. “I’m the least likely mech to start fight, I promise. Very interested in staying quiet and out of the brig, that’s me.”

Megatron stared at him with those terrifying red optics for a few moments longer, making Fulcrum shrink a little under the intimidating glare, before the big mech nodded and stood back up. “Good. Your crew has been assigned quarters on the ship. I’ll let Ratchet release you so you can be taken to them.”

Fulcrum vented in relief once Megatron had left again. Ratchet returned to disconnect the spark monitors and remind him to follow his new dietary orders, then several familiar faces were allowed to pile into the room.

“Pinhead!” Misfire made it through the door first, barreling into Fulcrum’s side to give the K-con a fierce hug.

“Careful, Misfire!” Krok admonished, entering next. Spinister was right behind him, looking around at all the medical equipment curiously. “Fulcrum, you’re looking good. Feeling better?”

“Much better.” Fulcrum nodded, wincing a little as Misfire squeezed him tight. “Seriously, Misfire. I’m fine.”

“Good.” Crankcase approached Fulcrum’s berth and gave the K-con a friendly punch to the shoulder plating. “Went through a lot of slag for you.”

“Ignore him. Everything is fine.” Misfire reassured, nuzzling Fulcrum’s cheek affectionately. “This ship is awesome. It’s huge, and it’s not falling apart, and sure, it’s full of Autobots, but not all of them are that bad. There’s this one minibot, and he runs a bar! And I think he’s going to let me mix drinks for him some time-“

Fulcrum let Misfire’s chatter wash over him as Krok peeled the jet off of him before helping the K-con to his feet.

The small group of Decepticons left the medical wing and started through the large, brightly lit halls of the Lost Light, staying close together with Fulcrum protectively in the center. The few Autobots they encountered did little more than glare at them, until they entered what seemed to be the residential sector and a skinny blue rotary turned a corner ahead of them.

“You!” The blue helicopter shouted as soon as he saw them, yellow optic narrowing hatefully as he pointed a pincer dramatically in their direction.

“You!” Spinister returned the cry with equal dramatics, tugging his blades from his back to wield them as a bludgeon as he launched himself at the other rotary.

“Shouldn’t we stop them?” Fulcrum watched as the two helicopters came together with a clash of purple plating on blue, the blue one shouting insults as Spinister just roared in fury.

“No.” Krok wearily shook his head and sighed, walking past the brawling pair. “As long as they don’t pull out guns, we leave them.”

“But-“ Megatron had seemed so serious about the ‘no fighting’ rule, and Fulcrum really didn’t want to end up in the brig.

“Nothing stops those two when they get going, trust me.” Crankcase grunted, apparently not caring at all that their shipmate was trying to kill an Autobot. “Whirl is just as crazy as Spinister. Not even the Autobots care if they fight, as long as nobody else gets involved and they don’t damage the ship too bad.”

Fulcrum gaped as they left the two behind, continuing on to their assigned quarters. What had they gotten themselves into?


	11. Chapter 11

The Scavengers had been assigned three sets of rooms on the Lost Light, with two berths each. Fulcrum wasn’t entirely surprised to learn that he would be sharing with Krok, which left Spinister with Crankcase to one side, and Misfire with Grimlock to the other. Fulcrum had a sneaking suspicion that the assignments wouldn’t matter much and they would all end up heaped in one room anyway. The others had been protective of him before, he couldn’t imagine how’d they’d act now, surrounded by Autobots. War over or not, Fulcrum couldn’t help but see every Autobot as a potential enemy.

For now, Fulcrum was content to sit down on one of the berths in the room to try and relax. The padding was soft and giving under his frame, so unlike the hard, cracked berth he had on the WAP. Fulcrum sighed and leaned back, arching his spine to try and work out a bit of the stiffness that resulted from laying around on a mediberth for who knew how many days. “So, how long was I out?”

“Not too long. A little under a decacycle.” Krok reassured, taking a seat next to Fulcrum. “The Autobot medics are competent, and work efficiently.”

“Yeah, they said they’re gonna look at Grimlock next, see if they can figure out how to make him un-stupid.” Misfire flopped down on the berth as well, sneaky fingers worming their way in to pet at Fulcrum’s belly. “Now if only we could get Grumpy over there to let them fix his head too.”

Crankcase crossed his arms and looked away. “Not gonna let Autobots poke at my brain.”

The door to the habsuite slid open to reveal Spinister, EM field pulsing bright and happy despite the shallow wounds and dents on his plating.

“Have a good fight?” Despite how ridiculous the brawls got, Krok was pleased to at least see Spinister having a genuinely good time. Neither him nor Whirl ever seemed to damage each other too badly, and working out his homicidal tendencies with the other rotary kept Spinister from trying to shoot everything in sight.

“Yeah, good fight.” Spinister agreed, not even seeming to notice his wounds. “I’ll get that blue ‘copter someday, tho.”

“I’m sure you will.” Krok commented indulgently.

Curled around Fulcrum, Misfire continued to blather on about the ship they had found themselves on and the mechs aboard it. Fulcrum mostly tuned the words out with the ease of long practice, at least until he heard something about a washrack.

“Wait, do they have washracks here?” Fulcrum looked at the others, and noticed that they did look significantly less grimy than normal. “With hot solvent and everything?”

“Oh yeah, as much as you want. It’s great!” Misfire wiggled himself closer until he could spread the palms of both hands over the curve of Fulcrum’s middle. “I think I felt something move!”

“They do that now.” Fulcrum chuckled and rested one hand over Misfire’s, one of the twins squirming underneath. He didn’t think that sensation would ever get old.

As nice as it was to sit there with the other Scavengers, safe and well fueled with the sparklings moving lazily inside his chamber, Fulcrum couldn’t help but be aware of how filthy he was. He hadn’t had a good wash since before his imprisonment in Styx; quick rinses under the cold, funny smelling used solvent on the WAP didn’t count. While Fulcrum had been forced to get used to being dirty, that didn’t mean he had to like it.

Typically, when Fulcrum announced that he intended to go get a wash, the rest of the Scavengers felt compelled to follow. They were all in full protective sire mode over their carrying K-con. Misfire even went so far as to pop by his quarters to fetch Grimlock.

Fortunately, the washrack nearest their quarters was empty of Autobots. Fulcrum turned on one of the wash-heads and stepped under the warming spray with a happy moan, fluffing all of his armor so that the spray could get all the way down to his protoform. So much dirt had accumulated there, driven deep in between his plating from crashing into the surface of Clemency twice, and it was an amazing relief to feel it all being dissolved and washed out. The solvent swirling around the drain was brown with filth, and Fulcrum shuddered to think that it had all been on or under his plating.

Around him, the other Scavengers were clearly enjoying the warm bath just as much. Spinister was just standing underneath a showerhead, face upturned into the spray with his optics closed, while Crankcase was carefully scrubbing at his armor while keeping his damaged helm out of the direct path of the solvent. Misfire had coaxed Grimlock underneath another showerhead and was vigorously attacking the Dynobot with a rag and some cleaner, and next to Fulcrum, Krok had picked up a small brush and was holding it out helpfully. “Here, turn around. Let me get your back.”

Fulcrum obediently turned so that Krok could start scrubbing the more stubborn spots of dirt from his back seams, engine purring at such dedicated attention from one of the sires of his sparklings. His carrying protocols were _very_ appreciative.

Taking a soft brush and bottle of cleanser from a niche in the bulkhead, Fulcrum gently started washing his front. His belly was warm with the heat from the forging process inside him, his gestation systems busily making use of all the minerals he’d just ingested, and Fulcrum couldn’t keep in a smile when he felt a fluttering little shift of weight against his pelvic gimble. One of the sparklings turning to get more comfortable, he liked to think.

“Enjoying this, are you?” Krok asked with a knowing chuckle, speaking in a low voice against Fulcrum’s neck just to feel a shiver travel up the K-con’s backstrut. Fulcrum’s field teeked a mix of happy and contentment, with an undercurrent of arousal. It was a nice change from the staticky exhaustion the carrier had been broadcasting for decacycles now.

“Very much.” Fulcrum leaned forward a little and spread the kibble on his back to let Krok get down into the mounting joints. The bomb plating had been modded onto his plating on the cheap, so the hinges didn’t have proper dust covers to keep the dirt out. Grit caught underneath had bothered Fulcrum since the day he’d been reformatted, and finally getting it all flushed out was _amazing_.

Misfire had passed his sponge to Grimlock and was trying to coax the dynobot into washing his wings, while Crankcase was doing his best to scrub Spinister’s back while avoiding the rotor blades that spun every time the helicopter’s engine rumbled in delight. Fulcrum, meanwhile, was more than happy to stand and let Krok take care of him. The monoformer was working ever lower with his brush, now focusing determinedly on the seams of Fulcrum’s aft with the occasional teasing, wandering touch.

Fulcrum let his valve panel click open, anticipating Krok’s touch there as well, and spread his legs further to aid in this goal. He was so comfortable that he had forgotten they were no longer on their own ship, where such activities could be carried out without fear of interruption.

When the door to the washracks hissed open, the charge in the room suddenly extinguished, and Fulcrum’s valve cover snapped shut so fast he nearly caught Krok’s finger. The Scavengers all turned to stare at the tiny, white Autobot that had interrupted them.

The minibot stared back, blue visor wide and shocked. “Um, hello.”

When Tailgate entered the washrack, the last thing he expected to be faced by was a group of Decepticons taking up the space. He knew the Scavengers were onboard, of course, everyone did. The Captain’s decision to allow aboard a group of Decepticons, even if it was only five of them, had been a source of great contention among the crew over the last decacycle. He just didn’t think they’d all be in the washrack having an orgy.

Well, okay. It wasn’t really an _orgy_. The Decepticons had all their intimate paneling shut (even if one of them had clearly closed his the moment Tailgate came in), but they were being far more touchy feely with each other than Tailgate ever expected from supposedly vicious, fearsome members of the Decepticon faction.

Tailgate felt like he should leave, but he’d spent the last few hours digging about in the Lost Light’s waste disposal trying to find a blockage and he just really wanted to get clean before getting back to his hab. “Um, hello. Hi. My name is Tailgate. I just need to get a wash, so I’m gonna do that. Hope you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not. We don’t mind.” One of the Decepticons said after a moment of silence, giving the others a pointed look. “We are, after all, guests on your ship.”

Thus assured that the group of Decepticons wouldn’t murder him for sharing the washrack, Tailgate took the last available showerhead and turned on the spray. As he turned his back to the spray, the minibot couldn’t help but stare at the mechs he had found himself in the room with. They were all larger than he was, but that was no great feat. Two were particularly huge, rivalling Ultra Magnus in mass, and Tailgate recognized one as the helicopter who tried to murder Whirl whenever the two met in the halls. Fighting wasn’t supposed to be allowed, but Whirl had stated that he was having the most fun since getting aboard the Lost Light, so the command staff was reluctantly allowing it.

The big helicopter didn’t look particularly threatening now, anyway, apparently completely absorbed in staring at the controls for the shower. Behind him, a blue grounder with some serious back mounted guns and a terrible head wound slowly went back to trying to wash his friend’s back.

Tailgate’s gaze was drawn next to the most garishly colored of the group, a smaller, lightly framed mech in shades of orange and yellow. Well, lightly framed except for a weird swelling around his abdomen. The Decepticon was almost comically round there, like he was hiding a ball under his plating.

Abruptly, Tailgate realized why the mech looked so funny. There was a rumor going around that one of the Decepticons was carrying, and obviously it was true. Tailgate knew the basics of carrying, that it meant that a mech was growing a little sparkling inside of them, but he’d never actually seen it. To think that underneath that swollen plating was a whole mech, incredibly tiny but with a spark and everything, it was _amazing_.

“Oh, my, goodness!” Tailgate squeeled, “Are you really _carrying_?”

The Decepticon’s yellow optics went wide at the minibot’s outburst, hands moving to try and shield his midsection from view. “Um, yes?”

“Wow, that’s so awesome!” Tailgate couldn’t help but gush. “I’ve heard about carrying, but never seen it in person! I mean, it’s like you’ve got your own tiny little hotspot right inside you. Can I feel?” He raised a hand, wondering just what a carrier’s belly would feel like to the touch.

The carrying Decepticon immediately took a step back and the one next to him moved protectively between him and Tailgate, staring at the minibot with hostile red optics above his facemask. “No.”

Tailgate suddenly realized that all of the Decepticons were staring at him, three sets of red optics and two visors, and they didn’t look terribly friendly. Okay, good to know, Decepticons could be touchy with eachother but not with Autobots. Tailgate remembered all the footage he had been shown of the war that he’d missed. The terrible gore and death, with Decepticons as the cause. Perhaps he had overstepped his bounds just a _tiny_ bit.

“Right, sorry. Sorry, it’s cool. That’s fine.” Tailgate laughed nervously and lowered his hand, turning to busily work at scrubbing the mess from his armor instead.

The other showerheads turned off as the Decepticons apparently decided they were done with their bath. They moved to the driers, a blast of forced air evaporating the last of the solvent from their plating before they trooped out. Tailgate watched them go thoughtfully as he finished up his own wash. So, those were real, honest-to-goodness Decepticons. All told, they didn’t seem to be nearly as bad as the others made them out to be.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait between chapters. Quarantine has killed my creativity.

Fulcrum wasn’t entirely surprised when he was the last Scavenger to wake up. Krok was no longer on the berth beside him, instead his place had been taken up by Misfire. The pink jet was buffing small circles along his back plating, and Fulcrum’s olfactory sensors picked up the scent of polish. Onlining his optics, the K-con let out a confused murmur.

“Well, look who’s awake!” Misfire crowed, “Morning, sleepy-head. Don’t move, I’m almost done.”

Fulcrum obediently remained still, enjoying the feel of having the scuffs and scratches buffed out of his armor. He hadn’t actually worn a coat of polish since before the Autobot attack on B’lahr. “The others?” The K-con asked curiously, wondering just what the other Scavengers had been up to while he’d been unconscious in the medbay.

“Oh, they’re off doing stuff. Crankcase has been working trying to get the WAP into shape. Spinister’s in the medbay helpin’ look at Grimlock. Least, he’ll do that ‘til the medics kick him out, then he’ll probably go off hunting for that other helicopter again. And Krok is, get this, Krok is down with the ship’s psychologist studying or something.” Misfire continued on with his task, all too happy to ramble on reporting on what the rest had been doing. “Okay, done with this part. Turn over.”

Easier said than done. Fulcrum groaned and laboriously rolled onto his back, using one hand to support the bulge of the sparklings as he shifted his weight.

Misfire chuckled and took the opportunity to rub his hands over the curve of Fulcrum’s belly, “They’re getting pretty heavy, huh?”

“Unfortunately.” Fulcrum grumbled, trying to adjust to be more comfortable as the weight of his gestation chamber settled on his internals. “And the medic says I’m _underweight_. Probably won’t even be able to walk by the end of all this.”

“Then we’ll just have to carry you!” Misfire responded with cheer in his voice, picking up the can of polish and his rag to get started on Fulcrum’s chestplate. Sure, the K-con could reach these parts on his own, but it gave Misfire a certain sense of satisfaction to look after the carrier. Probably those weird ‘sire protocols’ Krok sometimes talked to him about.

About the time Misfire finished with the polish, Fulcrum’s fuel gauge was insistently pinging that he was low. He’d fueled right before recharge, but apparently his systems were already getting used to being kept topped up. “Misfire, help me up. I need fuel.”

“Great, we can visit Swerve’s!” Misfire pulled him upright and helped him off the berth before tugging out the door. “This ship has an actual bar; can you believe it? With all kinds of high-grade and engex. No more of that canned scrap for us! Not that you can have any engex, but Swerve said he was gonna mix up a carrier special just for you.”

Apparently, a decacycle was all it took for the others to get friendly with Autobots. Well, that was fine and dandy for them. To Fulcrum, though, it hadn’t been long at all since he’d seen Autobots burst into the B’lahr base, guns blazing, and the terrified techie had run for his life.

Walking through the Autobot ship, Fulcrum’s plating tensed tightly to his frame as he stayed close to Misfire. While the jet was a notoriously poor shot, he was still a large warframe and reasonably capable in close-range combat. Better than Fulcrum was.

Fortunately, Misfire’s dubious fighting skills were not needed. The Autobots in the hall didn’t offer anything more threatening than glares and some muttered threats. For the most part, other mechs just stared. Fulcrum hadn’t been particularly self-conscious over the way his frame was changing up until that point. But now, he was only too aware of why everyone was staring. There was no way to hide his condition at this point, and the twins had grown to the point where, even with both hands, Fulcrum couldn’t conceal them.

It was somewhat of a relief to reach the bar Misfire had been talking so much about. It was still first shift, so the place was near empty. After greeting the hulking doormech (who simply nodded and mumbled “Ten” in return), Misfire led Fulcrum over to a booth near the bar so that the K-con could gratefully sit down. The walk from their quarters to the bar hadn’t been terribly long, but Fulcrum’s ankles and pedes still ached. His frame had never been meant to carry around so much extra weight.

A squat red and white minibot bustled up to them almost immediately, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Hey, Misfire! Who you got with ya?”

“Hey, Swerve,” Misfire bumped knuckles with the minibot amiably. “This is Fulcrum, he finally escaped the medics and is in need of a special drink.”

“Yeah?” Swerve’s optical band brightened and the grin, if possible, got bigger. “Then you must be the one who’s knocked up! The whole ship’s been talking about you, been ages since anybody’s seen a carrier. Gave me a good excuse to fix up a Swerve-custom mix, just for ya. Lemme go put it together. Usual for you, Misfire?”

“You know just what I like,” Misfire shot the minibot some fingerguns, which were fired right back as Swerve headed back behind his bar to start mixing. “Seriously, Swerve’s great. Mech really knows his energon, and he’s got pretty much everything. He’ll do you up right, I promise.” Misfire turned to reassure Fulcrum.

For his part, the K-Con still didn’t trust anything an Autobot gave him, but Misfire seemed so certain. The minibot returned a few klicks later with two drinks in servo, one a cobalt blue glittering with minerals and additives, the other a glowing violet that was nearly the shade of Misfire’s plating. The first was pushed in front of Fulcrum, the other eagerly taken by Misfire.

The jet immediately tossed back half his drink and smacked his lips in satisfaction. “Just like they used to make them back in Vos! You’re the best Swerve.”

“You better believe it!” The minibot responded cockily. “Here, you gotta try yours too, Mr. Mom. I even bothered to read Ratchet’s stuff on all the additives carriers are supposed to take and did my best to get it not taste like slag. Now I just need a bona-fide carrier to taste it, and you’re the only one I’ve got.”

Fulcrum was starting to see why Misfire and Swerve got along, they both seemed to be completely incapable of shutting their vocalizers. Cautiously, the K-con lifted his glass and gave the drink a sip. It was thicker than he normally liked his energon, due to all the supplements added, but surprisingly tasty. He took a second, longer swig and let it linger on his chemoreceptors. The initial flavor was a bit sharp, but it settled into a sweet aftertaste on his glossa and Fulcrum couldn’t keep in a pleased hum. He had to admit, it was _really_ good, and his carrier protocols were very pleased at the supplements in the drink. All the metals and minerals his gestation systems were currently craving.

The sparklings were apparently quite pleased as well, judging by the fluttering little kicks suddenly peppering his pelvic gimble. Fulcrum rubbed a hand over the sensation and couldn’t stop a soft smile from spreading over his faceplate.

“I take it you like it?” Swerve piped up, visor brightening as he took in the rather satisfied expression on the carrier’s face.

Fulcrum coughed, suddenly aware that he was grinning like an idiot in front of an Autobot. “Uh, yeah. It’s good.”

“Excellent.” Swerve clapped his hands together, “My drink is now carrier approved. Who knows, maybe you’ll get some of the other bots on this ship in a baby making mood. Might need the new menu item. Here, I’ll get ya another!”

The minibot bustled away towards the bar again, and Fulcrum let himself relax slightly in the booth. Another drink was set in front of him, then Swerve sat himself down across from Misfire and the two started up a fast-paced conversation that was near incomprehensible to Fulcrum. The K-con opted to slowly sip at his drink, comforted by the solid frame and field of Misfire pressed against him on one side as he let the jet’s words wash over him like white noise.

Other mecha started coming into the bar after a little while as first shift ended, and Swerve left the table to go service his new customers. None of the newcomers chose to sit near the two Decepticons, which suited Fulcrum just fine.

Somewhere around Fulcrum’s third (and Misfire’s fifth) drink, a familiar frame came in through the door to the bar.

“Hey, Krok!” Misfire cheered and waved his drink in the air, engex slopping down his arm. Next to him, Fulcrum dodged a wildly waving wing with a practiced move and looked to see that his commander had indeed just entered; a skinny, orange ground frame at his side.

“Misfire, put that down before you spill it everywhere.” Krok ordered as he joined them at their booth, raising a hand to avoid getting splashed. “Ah, hello, Fulcrum. It’s good to see you out of the room.”

“Misfire insisted on getting drinks.” Fulcrum lifted his own drink for emphasis, relaxing further now that his Commander was there, even if he came in the company of an Autobot. It helped, of course, that said Autobot probably had the least threatening appearance ever. Even Fulcrum was hard pressed to be scared of a skinny little grounder with big, round glasses and almost no armor.

“Hello, I’m Rung.” The Autobot held out a hand, which Fulcrum shook cautiously. “I’m the psychiatrist here on the Lost Light. If you ever have anything you need to talk about, my door is always open.”

“Uh, right. Thanks.” Fulcrum didn’t imagine he’d ever take the mech up on that offer, but he supposed the offer was nice. “So, I guess Krok is working on his clinic idea?”

“Yes, I think his idea to work with Decepticons is wonderful.” Rung said enthusiastically, sliding his slight frame into the booth next to Krok. “Even with the war over, it’s so hard for Decepticons to feel comfortable seeking professional mental help. I am more than happy to help Krok achieve his goal.”

The conversation continued on and Fulcrum allowed himself to tune out once more. Now that the sparklings were moving around, he found the minute he stopped actively focusing, his attention inevitably drifted to them. The twins weren’t kicking anymore, but Fulcrum still felt them shifting their weight in his gestation chamber. Sometimes there were little nudges, almost as if in response to particularly loud laughs from Misfire or a raised voice from Krok. Fulcrum liked to think they knew their sire’s voice.

Fulcrum would’ve never chosen to get onboard an Autobot ship, but so far, things weren’t too bad.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the gap between updates. The interruption to my work schedule also eliminated my usual writing time.

At some point, Fulcrum must have drifted into recharge, because he gently awoke to the sensation of being cradled in the arms of a mech that was walking. The rumble of a powerful flight engine was soothing background noise, as was the familiar sparkpulse behind the plating his audial rested against. Fulcrum dimly onlined an optic long enough to see a large expanse of dark purple plating. Spinister, of course. The rotary was the only Scavenger strong enough to actually pick him up these days.

Secure in the knowledge that he was safe and protected, Fulcrum drifted off again. When he next awoke, he was back in their habsuite and curled in Spinister’s lap. The rotary was in recharge sitting on the berth with his back against the wall, one large hand resting on Fulcrum’s belly. It was warm and comfortable, and Fulcrum would’ve liked to stay there all day, but an insistent ping from his tank was reminding him to fuel. He had practically gorged himself at the bar, and now he was running on empty again.

With a groan, Fulcrum uncurled slightly and gave the knee nearest him a pat. “Spin?”

Grunting, the helicopter under him shifted and strong arms encircled him a little tighter, “Noo. Still ‘chargin.”

Fulcrum changed his pat to a punch. “Spin. Help me up, I need to fuel.”

That got a little more movement out of the helicopter, as one large arm raised off of Fulcrum to dig in subspace. A glowing cube of energon was produced, already glittering with additives. Spinister set it aside so he could use both hands to help manipulate Fulcrum into a more upright position, and the K-con let out a strangled sound as the sparklings briefly crushed his poor, much abused fuel pump. It was a good thing he didn’t have much in his tanks.

After a few more adjustments, Fulcrum was sitting upright with the weight of the sparklings resting more comfortably low in his pelvic girdle and his back pressed against Spinister’s broad chestplates. Fulcrum let out a pleased hum as he sipped at his energon, a flurry of kicks inside him signaling that his movement had woken up the sparklings as well.

One of Spinister’s large hands came around to rub at the K-con’s belly, and his spark pulsed soothingly against Fulcrum’s back. The helicopter’s field was smooth and still fuzzy with sleep, with none of the sharp jabs of paranoia that tended to afflict him when he was more awake. In that moment, Fulcrum could hardly imagine being more comfortable. His spark was still working hard to support the two sparklings growing quickly inside his gestation chamber, and being near a strong, familiar spark helped support the burden.

Spinister apparently had a similar idea, because he nuzzled his facemask against Fulcrum’s audial and murmured, “Wanna merge?”

Fulcrum huffed a sleepy laugh at the blunt proposal, but couldn’t deny that the thought sounded nice. He wasn’t quite up for a frag yet, maybe after he woke up a bit more, but sparkmerging didn’t require nearly as much energy.

It was some effort, though, for Fulcrum to get himself turned around to face Spinister. The helicopter watched him struggle with his own bulk for a full minute, before finally grabbing the smaller K-con and picking him up to spin him around.

Fulcrum shifted to settle himself better, legs now forced fairly wide as he straddled Spinister’s broad thighs with his belly pressed into the helicopter’s flat abdomen. Getting chest to chest wasn’t as easy as it used to be.

With a loud click, Spinister’s chest plating folded aside and his bright sparklight bathed Fulcrum in warmth. The K-con’s own plating responded almost automatically, tendrils of spark energy reaching out for the stronger spark above it. Carrying made Fulcrum almost constantly hungry, for fuel but also for spark energy. Fortunately, the influence of sire coding meant that the other Scavengers had more than enough to give to him.

Sinking into the merge, Fulcrum’s awareness of his body faded as his spark synced with Spinister’s. Echoes of a large, strong frame with a powerful flight engine overlayed with Fulcrum’s own slighter body in a dizzying mix of sensations, and the K-con felt a burst of energy like a concentrated engex shot his frame greedily drew from Spinister’s. Accompanying it was a fierce burst of protectiveness and affection, the helicopter’s spark pulsing all of the feelings at he could never put into words.

Merging with each Scavenger was a slightly different experience. Spinister was all strength and power, as he was the largest frame, but could also bring spikes of paranoia with dark edges and threatening shadows. Only in the depths of a merge could he find real trust, since nothing could hide from the spark, letting him see things through another’s optics and frame for a brief moment.

Misfire was almost the complete opposite, like licking a live electrical wire. His energy spilled over into his partner, manic and uncontrolled, all excitement and passion. It was like a whirlwind, electricity zapping back and forth between frames faster and faster until overload. Then, one just had to be okay with Misfire clinging to them for the rest of the evening.

Pricky and grumpy on the surface, Crankcase was nearly the same in his spark. After time and experience, though, Fulcrum and the other Scavengers knew how to round off his hard edges to find the inner core that wanted reassurance and companionship. The best to give that was often Krok, with his deep-seated need to protect and guard his team. Fulcrum loved to let that wash over him, remind him that here he wanted.

As Fulcrum’s spark twined with Spinister’s and he drew in the offered energy, two more young, curious sparks reached towards their connection. The helicopter met the sparklings with his own child-like curiosity, which Fulcrum mixed with his own love for his little ones. The twins almost danced in the connection, their growing sparks eagerly absorbing all they were given.

Overload came like a gentle wave, washing over Fulcrum as charge crackled over his frame and his spark flared in its casing. As he slumped against Spinister’s sturdy frame, his spark retracted fully back into his chest and the protective plating closed over it once more. He felt relaxed and comfortable, but also more energized. And, there was one other familiar feeling.

Spinister looked down at him with bright red optics, seeming to know what he wanted once more without him even needing to say it. “Energon?”

Fulcrum huffed and worked to get himself back upright. “Yes, please.”


	14. Chapter 14

Walking into an Autobot medbay was not high on Fulcrum’s ‘want to do’ list, but he liked the idea of being hunted down by the Autobot’s head medic even less. And so, he headed down to the Lost Light’s medbay and tried not to feel like he was walking to his own execution. (A particular experience Fulcrum was not keen to repeat) Misfire trotted along next to him for moral support, mouth running a mile a minute in a sort of comforting background noise. Fulcrum was a little too busy just trying to keep up with him to actually focus on what he was saying. The sparklings were growing at a rapid pace now that their carrier was fueling properly, and their increasing weight was making walking more and more difficult. His gait was really more of a waddle at this point, a fact that Misfire found endlessly amusing.

The door to the medbay slid open to reveal a hulking figure. Fulcrum stepped back, hands instinctively going to his middle to guard his sparklings from the enormous mech who filled the entire doorframe, when Misfire leapt forward with a cry of “Grimmsie!”

And indeed, the huge shadow resolved into the intimidating form of Grimlock in his root mode. Fulcrum felt the tension leave his frame and vented a sigh of relief. Odd how the mech who was arguably the most terrifying Autobot ever was also the only one he felt comfortable around.

Grimlock stepped forward and suddenly swept Misfire up into his powerful arms. The jet laughed in excitement and surprise, returning the embrace as best as he could. “Hey, Grimlock! I love you too, buddy!”

“Misfire.” Grimlock set the jet back down, but kept his large hands firmly on Misfire’s shoulders. “Thank you. For taking care of me, for everything.”

“Wha-“ Misfire’s optics went wide and his jaw dropped open. “You- you talked! Like, a whole sentence. Two whole sentences!”

“I guess they fixed you then, huh?” Fulcrum wasn’t entirely sure whether this was a good or bad thing, though this new, smart Grimlock seemed friendly enough.

“Yep, he’s all fixed up.” A new voice interjected as the medbay door slid open again to reveal the Autobot’s fearsome CMO. “Which means I’m kicking him out of my medbay. You, however-“ Ratchet focused on Fulcrum, pointing a fearsome red finger at the carrying K-con. “In.”

“Y-yes sir.” Fulcrum snapped to attention and followed the medic into his domain with one last, pleading glance back at Misfire and Fulcrum. The jet just gave him a jaunty wave.

“We’ll wait out here for ya, buddy!”

Fat lot of help they were.

Fortunately, the Autobot CMO was apparently nicer than his bedside manner would indicate, because Ratchet kindly lowered the medberth and helped Fulcrum onto it before raising it back up to a comfortable height. “I see that you’ve started gaining weight nicely.” The medic commented, noting the weight indicated on the side of the berth and scribbling it down in the K-con’s chart. “I’m going to keep you on the same level of increased rations, though, I want to see you put on more before emergence.”

“More?” Fulcrum repeated incredulously, both hands placed atop the rounded dome of his belly.

“Your frame has been prioritizing the sparklings, which is why they are both at a healthy size and weight for their stage in development. On the smaller end, but acceptable.” Ratchet plugged in to Fulcrum’s medical port, and the K-con fidgeted as his frame diagnostics were scrolled through. “You, however, are still showing signs of malnourishment and chronic under-fuelling. Unfortunately, there’s nothing that can be done until after the sparklings emerge. Until then, keep adding supplements to all your energon.”

Fulcrum nodded, eager to be released from the Medbay. And, really, being told to keep drinking high-quality fuel wasn’t exactly the most difficult instructions he’d ever received.

“Now then, do you want to see your sparklings?”

“Y-you can do that?”

“Of course. Hold still for a klik.” Ratchet picked up a scanner and slowly ran it across his patient’s abdomen. Fulcrum shivered at the tingle of the scan, but it passed quickly enough. A button was pressed on the scanner, and it projected a 3-d hologram in shades of grayscale.

It took Fulcrum a moment to make out what the shapes were in the image, but when he did, he gasped. The hologram clearly showed two little sparklings, curled up facing each other. They had big, round helms, and stout bodies with stubby limbs. Both their sparks were plainly visible, their chest plating had not yet formed, and their bodies were the soft, smooth texture of un-protected protoform. One of the sparklings seemed to have a pair of small flaps on his back, and Fulcrum leaned forward as best he could to try and get a better look. “Is that-?”

“Wingbuds, it looks like.” Ratchet confirmed, turning the hologram and zooming in on the sparkling’s back. “There’s a good chance you’re having at least one flier.”

“A flier.” Fulcrum breathed, “I’m having a flier.” Somehow, seeing the image of the sparklings made everything so much more real. They weren’t just a weight pulling at his backstrut, and pedes kicking at him when he was trying to recharge. They were actual, tiny mechs, with sparks, and servos, and helms. The hologram was even clear enough to make out their faceplates, with optics closed, tiny olfactory ridges, and pouting little mouths. Some great, unknown emotion welled up inside Fulcrum, making his kibble plating clatter and washer-fluid dribbled from the inside corners of his optics. He hardly noticed Ratchet setting down the scanner, screen up so that the hologram still displayed, to wander over to the door.

The room suddenly became much more crowded as Misfire and the enormous form of Grimlock entered and rushed to Fulcrum’s berthside. Misfire immediately crowded close, all anxious wings and fidgeting fingers.

“Pinhead? What’s wrong, what happened? Are you crying? Who do I need to hurt?!” Misfire demanded.

Fulcrum wasn’t sure his vocalizer would engage properly, so he just nudged the scanner so that Misfire could see the image better.

“Are those the sparklings?” The seeker leaned in for a better look. “Eee, they’re so cute. Look at how little their servos are.”

“One of ‘em’s got wings.” Grimlock rumbled, looming over Fulcrum’s other side. His red visor seemed to soften slightly as he lifted a finger to point out the tiny flaps visible on the hologram. “Look at that, a seeker.”

“A seeker!” Misfire’s wings perked and his plating puffed up smugly, “Well would ya look at that. Wonder who must’ve done that, huh?”

Fulcrum snorted at that and gave Misfire a weak smack on the arm. The last thing anyone needed was the jet strutting around all proud of himself. He was insufferable enough at it was.

“Well, the doc says you’re good to go. Let’s get you a drink, yeah? Tell everybody the good news!” Misfire helped Fulcrum awkwardly slide off the med berth, doing his best to keep the rather unwieldy carrier steady. The rush of emotion seemed to have robbed his leg struts of their strength, which, combined with the weight of twin sparklings, made standing rather difficult; never mind walking.

The K-con managed one wobbly step when a large pair of servos gently lifted him into the air. Suddenly, he found himself cradled against a broad chestplate, a position that was becoming rather familiar to him. This time, however, it wasn’t Spinister. Instead, Grimlock’s jagged faceplate looked down on him.

“Here, I’ll carry ya.” Grimlock offered, heading out of the medbay with long strides that left Misfire scrambling to keep up.

“Oh, uh. Thanks.” Fulcrum still wasn’t quite sure what to make of this new, intelligent Grimlock. He’d gotten used to the Dynobot as more of a ship’s pet, sometimes destroying a bulkhead in a rage, sometimes nuzzling up against one of the Scavengers for scritches. Now that Grimlock had his full mental facilities back, he had become an unknown quantity again.

“ ‘Course. I need to thank you anyway. You, and the rest of the Scavengers.” Grimlock spoke softly, eloquent speech so at odds with the halting, struggling single words Fulcrum was so accustomed to. “For looking after me when I was sick, and taking care of me. I owe you guys. I promise, I won’t let anything happen to you. Or to the sparklings.”

The promise made Fulcrum relax back into the Dynobot’s arms, tension dissipating. Grimlock, it seemed, was just as loyal and friendly as he had been when damaged. Funny, considering his harrowing reputation as a Decepticon-slayer during the war. Once more, Fulcrum was grateful he’d suggested they bring the Dynobot aboard the WAP back on Celemancy. Nothing about the end of the war was turning out to be how Fulcrum had imagined, but he found himself unable to complain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to bring Grimlock back in somehow. I must admit, I have no idea how to write The Big Guy. 
> 
> Also, sparkling squee!


End file.
